Let the moors give you the willies,
where poppies bleed and kittens drown
As lambs lie eyeless and cold,
let rock and stone hound your bone
as sallow tales disturb the soul
For the truth runs deeper than the buried dead
who might have loved you back
Might we make sense of the wind,
chuntering and squealing like a table,
dragged across the flags?
Swaddled in a peggy-rug,
can you hide from a spell
you cast on yourself?
Scriveners in darkness deep,
reveal the fears hid in your head -
that are your sorry property
Withered low on the fanning heights,
the dwelling - now a chasm of desertion,
drops, memory by memory,
stone by rain-glistened stone,
back into the black hillside
The cold chimney,
cultural, cooking heart
has become a weather whistle…
did it speak to you?
Quarried with love and felled with neglect
this house, those dreams and fancies
are clock-tocked and sample-stitched -
lost in a dereliction of dust
but remembered by future lovers
whose cloying flowers are laid
as much for their own misplaced lust