Windgate Nick
(An Addingham poem)
The venerable mist
hangs buoyant; taut,
a stubble veil upon
its face, when currents
of blooming heather lay
along its ancient purple race.
Beneath I stand in retrospect
motionless as time begins to blend,
here where one should feel privileged
to negotiate the freezing wind,
this place surely in need of a friend
where tussock stand rigid still!
My footprint etched upon its soul
before each blade of grass
appears to acknowledge,
this confined partisan role.
© Harry J Horsman 1997
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