The Tops

up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless

clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs

loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear

slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless

harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles

a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches

flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air

ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen

before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze

a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge

twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed

the sky in my phone howls

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.