Analysis by Lydia Aldridge

The Marches is an abundantly evocative poem, profuse in rich scenic description and the motifs of transience, history and the traveller. Hannah Green takes us on a pilgrimage of sorts, spanning further than simply from A to B. The topography of the piece compasses both past and present, the traveller and the traversed, the expanse of the landscape is both widened and condensed in five stanzas. The title itself flits between meaning, both the physical act of ‘marching’ and the geographical position of the Welsh Marches, a term originally used in the Middle Ages, to denote the marches which lie between the borders of England and Wales; Green greets us with notions of movement, place and past – ideas which will fervently, yet calmly, flow through the poem as a whole.

We begin with a choice already made for us, the choice to walk the ‘wilder ways.’ What this entails exactly, is revealed line by line, step by step. The verb ‘meant’ itself implies a conscious decision to break away from what can be assumed as more conventional, modern routes, at once the connotations of ‘wilder’ signal to the past and the stream of archaism begins. We do not dawdle; alliteration aplenty drives us forward through the rhythms and music of the wilder side. The drawn-out meandering of walking the ‘wilder ways’ is then quickened to hurried small steps trying to outpace the ‘skittering scree’, and then all at once the great expanse of the ‘miles, mild’ brings an awe full deceleration once more. The movement created by Green’s delightful and dedicated alliterative prowess is so natural it almost evades notice – the ‘peewit’ call of the lapwing is almost overshadowed. There’s such a naturalness to the sound of ‘valleys veering’ and slumbering under a ‘sloped canvas soaked’, it’s rare to find such perfect description, to be able to visualise the scenery through sound.

Halcyon is the term that first came to mind when reading this poem through, the almost cinematic re-imagining of a perfect summer now captured forever in time is akin to that of Old English poetry. Indeed, there is a connection to the natural world that is almost archaic, similar to Seamus Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist, especially seen in the description of ‘bleached bones’ and the Anglo-Saxon relic of the ‘holloway.’ Though the final stanza lurches us towards the present, there’s the sense of walking through the past, inexplicably tied with the here and now. ‘Hwaet!’ the greatly disputed Old English phrase signals to the infamous opening of Beowulf, ‘how we touched the sea in Cardigan Bay’ is a direct nod to one of the most famous opening lines in English literature. Once again, this theme of the past intertwined with the present, the mingling of the ‘might of kings’ with the great expanse of Cardigan Bay is surprisingly fitting. This final allusion to what has come before also marks our traveller’s return to the here and now, days spent trekking through the body of the countryside are now eaten up by the ‘thrust’ of the train. The military imagery of ‘hot spear’ once again alludes to Old English texts of triumph and battle, casting modernity as the victor. Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire also comes to mind once we come to the end of the poem, the sentiment of innovation and industry becoming the demise of the old traditions.

The topography of The Marches is boundless, not only do we travel countless days to reach Cardigan Bay, we touch upon old relics over tentative morning dew; Hannah allows us to journey along and experience those sacred moments spent in a realm where time is suspended. Perhaps without meaning to be, this poem is a gorgeous revival of the pastoral mode, its palette and orchestral qualities convey such a sense of reverence, we are gently reminded ‘how small we are’ and it is truly a comfort.