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


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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