Up on the moor, beneath the crag,
A ruin rots its walls in rain,
The bracken shoots break through the rust
Of last years’ growth and crumbling rock.
The curlew’s call, reclaim the sky,
Await the screams of summer’s swifts.
This point round which disaster whirls,
Is still and calm and sorrow deep
They left the shell and took the heart.
From hanging hopes the stories drip,
From dropping ropes and sheering axe.
A ruin stands its speechless ground.
And every spring those curlews call,
There’s freedom here to question all.