Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Sat on a Yorkshire Hillside Dreaming of Li Po and a Glass of Warm Beer

Inside the weeping willows
that sleep across acres of wild garlic
the afternoon battles with transparent swords

pungent and alive the scent rips up into the crisp Spring air.

Clear waters, once red with blood
fall from the valley of Marston Moor.

It is early March,
in the light’s reflections
upon Cock Beck’s glittering film
silver Chub race along the bed
to Stutton’s wrought iron crumbling footbridge

and we trace the stream
to the black towers
of the brewery cousins
silent in orange industrial glow.

Here, where long grasses reach the waist,
caressing covered legs and soil caked boots
old men with grey Lurchers course hares in the quarry
the limestone drop echoes soft rabbit feet

the only sound the deep tyke voice
no faces unfamiliar on Fawcett’s estate.

Adelle Stripe

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