North Pennine Voice Poem by Sally Evans

I am constantly told
I have an English accent.
It is from the North
Pennines - Teesdale, Lonsdale,
where brown rivers ripple
over sharp consonants,
every vowel whole,
thee earth, thee oak, thee apple
clothing woodlands,
travelling
a pleasurable dactyl,
discovery staccato,
understanding
four long slow sounds,
the sympathy of the outsider
legendary, indepedence
a thoughtful peal
of distant village bells.

It is good to carry
these memories on my tongue,
one landscape my background
to another spectacular one -
where I and my unchanging race
are settled - slopes of trees
deciduous, wakening, infused
by horizontal sunbeams
to grey, gold, russet, sage
and lime - the calls
of animals and named birds -
cuckoo sung home,
evening swallows with an
African accent.
And when the deer
dance up the hill, the stag
(who does not know he is Scottish)
speaks rarely and perfectly.

Yes my friends
I have an English accent
and yet I know your grammar
and varying accents
distinct in moments
as only a wanderer can,
who knows what to look for
alongside the rivers
that flow from your forests
in all of their details,
diffusing the dangerous
brightness of the sun.

2003