High Noon at the Wind Break
Scrambling through gritstone and shale,
pushing up out of myself
to where wind-tusked moors
trowel the sky.
Tall limestone stones,
rounded by the wheels of the wind,
pile atop each other into a curved nudity.
Nothing else here
but the low brow beating wind
where the plateau ends in a stark
nakedness.
I cannot stay, scoured to the bone
pinned down as I am.
I must return to tell someone
that when we have crossed a line
we did not see,
or yesterday knew nothing of,
then we should bite our tongue,
and silently appreciate
the plump village barmaid
who now serves
a warm beer.
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