Black Hill
On the Edge Of Black Hill.
The black moors rise, still and ignored,
Fey and, not quite timeless, sleeping races,
Beneath these stiff boots, treading memory trods,
Dried heather flowers and loose black sods.
Crumbling, we sit, and our eyes trace these lines,
Delivered and executed by a thin spidery hand.
To lost pools, and pleasure gardens, what jubilee.
Will deep lethargy discover us on the seat of angels,
And cast us from these dour dark dank heights,
To poor pastures below, with the sorry sheep,
And sorrier autumn meadow weed, long husky
Dessication of this memory, salty tears on cracking lips.
Come inspiration and rescue these dogs, this sorry man,
Pluck us high from this forgotten forbidden edge,
Where skies and moors meet and these elements,
Find roost in dark execution, lost heathered places.
Crumbling black heart, dogs and spidery intention,
Fey, but not quite crumbling, or pleasureless,
As often before, now delivered and with stiff boots,
We stand, shake a little, deep sniff and try.
Burst this shell, from around black and heavy thoughts,
Fill this dry heart with jubilee pastures,
Walking with positive dogs, timeless angels,
Downhill now, to autumn valleys on old sorry sheep trods,
With newly woken dreams, inspiration of sleeping places.
