Three thousand springs tombed beneath the peat,
each autumn spreads another blanket
to muffle the curlew's sobs,
the pipits all.
One feckless fag end thumbed into the wind
and flame rips away your shroud;
leaves you nude staring up
In a carbonised land of blackened ling,
Saxon dykes, Danish tracks, alum roads,
tank ruts, a scatter of roasted adders
and bird silence.
Astonished at the sun, at the lenses, the men
measure your incised lines, the questions:
boundary stone? map to find Orion?
Or just some hide-clad priest's contraption,
to be unveiled on sacred days to steer
the same old shivering fear safe
into his hands
Harry Nicholson July 2007
Voice of the Moors - Magazine of the North York Moors Association.
Issue 90 Autumn-Winter 2007
Posted by fitzcoraldo
8th September 2008ce