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Tony Cullen

Anglezarke

 

Anlaf’s shieling centres

on Pikestones long chambered

Carne \ few paths take foot over Goit

 

or Black Beck where

a man and his dog are

recorded in shades of

 

grey \ Lark on his sky-hook

sings dew-dell songs about

his North home to an audience

 

of rocks dressed

in barnacle and snails \

dry stream-beds undercut the peat

 

floor \ mounds of evergreen

moor grass compact

and barricade their silvery

 

seed heads displaying

under a newly minted

sun \ beneath these

 

uncluttered skies clear

of expression blue velvet

bracken embroiders its way

 

through ruins and Barium

beds \ allowing yesterday

a single foothold

 

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