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It’s wet underfoot with no paths running through the heather;
I passed a dead sheep on the peak of this moor overlooking the valley
Where the Calder flows beneath the frail cover of winter trees;
Up here, the roar of the wind fills my ears, the cold slaps my face.

Turning in the distance are the white tri-sails of a wind farm,
Strange and quiet – those tall metal ghosts writhing in unison,
Their bladed arms glinting like broad scalpels slicing the slow shine
Where the last folds of daylight ache before the gathering storm.

I’ve come this far with my thoughts of her losing their religion,
Our sleep separated by doors and beds, the nights’ words no longer
Words, but pregnant silences long dead – the youth of our love buried
Beneath the sorrow of heavy hearts and glances that bow our heads.

A flask of tea and sandwiches; all day the walk; now I take cover
In a bird hide where the heather claws the wood. The swollen Clouds
In the distance, dark gatherings of fluid, pressing their weight over
The bladed farm; the black winds splitting and spitting out this way.