Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Tony Cullen


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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