t f R r



On my OS map fine blue veins drain acres of moor.

 Growing in width they link on a mostly slow downward journey.

To varicose blue bulges behind Victorian stone dams.

Held there by a draughtsman’s pencil line

In a pause.

But there is no blue up here

Only beer brown water thick with peat

And sour as a pint you’d take straight back.

Mapped black crag lines are grey and crunch underfoot.

The broken edge beyond falls away and is as uncomfortable as a wasted day.

Hands pocketed I stand on this grit stone doorstep

Like a nervous pint of milk. 

There is an unmapped landscape here too

Where a ball hand of wind shoves a shoulder

And shouts in an ear.

Arthritic heather fingers hold sheep wool streamers  

In an ankle high crowd.

And bitter peat snatches boot prints

As if grasping for a half remembered thought 

Dovestones and the wind
Windless Dovestones