The moors are weighted with this rain.
Another ridge of peat is lain.
The curlews haunt the hills and wail.
The moors are closing round the dale.
The hamlet, old as language, turns
Its back on changing thoughts and forms.
Along the beck the pathways creep:
The gritstone pavements, rutted deep.
The mansion house, a hollowed shell,
Where spirit fires are burning still,
And owls can echo history’s cries,
Beneath the towering summer skies.
The valley sits above its pasts:
A flick of dust which cannot last.