Across the valley, through the trees,
The ruined graves and abbey walls.
A robin rolled its autumn song,
All else was silent, still and calm.
Our fractured memories slipped off down,
The pilgrim pathways of the past.
The hills and woodlands soaked our loss.
With every step we gave you up.
The morning hollow, evening void,
Your spirit dance and voice now hushed.
To earth or sky or water lost:
The nothing where the sadness was.
We stared across the changeless view:
The moors and rivers now held you.
Bolton Abbey, Yorkshire, where we thought of Morning Hollow by Sparklehorse.