Rambling down a rubbled Roman road from
Purpled moor towards Hope, by a cohort
Of cone shedding pines. Let the gaze consort
With the view through the dale despite its slim
Exclamation mark cement works chimney
Giving the finger to farming. Hedge-row
Brambles hang heavy with blackberries that grow
So freely crumbles, it seems, have to be.
Mountain bikers, heather-faced, breathlessly
Pressing pedals to deny jagged stones
And gravity up that track where legions trod.
Endeavour fashions all there is to see
In this human nature, and sure as bones
Man passes by whether God or no God.
Dave Alton
No comments:
Post a Comment