Pain Hill Moor


High in heavy rain clouds edged with chrome
Spins a carousel of rooks jacks and carrion crows
Too bickeringly quarrelsome to allow their silence to condone
The robin’s melancholic evening air
Over the years the wind has blown
These beech crowns to form a shallow dome
To the top of this natural cathedral has flown
A flock of laughing Fieldfare
Stiff-masted moorland grasses sing long low
Moaning laments when the sharp wind bluster-blows
Such long whines and long wails as if the wind longs to atone
For its desire to scour the moor bare
Ragged upland sheep, all skin and bone
Shelter in the lee of a wall of grey stone
Sadly surveying their Pain Hill Moor home
 In silence, with disconsolate stares

Pain Hill Moor Bottom


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