Up on the moor tops, fields are cut,
And soon the berries will be ripe.
Amongst the heather, pipit rich,
The tewits fake their broken wings.
I think too hard about the words.
The sun is low and burns the eyes.
The dry stone walls form broken lines.
I hear the words, but cannot write.
And down below, the dale is dark,
Its words are carved on whispered stones.
Around the empty chapel hall
The swallows coax unwilling young.
So this is summer in the north:
A chaffinch calls at mottled skies.