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