(in memory of Keith Bennett)
Not gentle, not like home, these moors
lack beauty: lacking light the shadow lies,
a godless fleer hangs leering still.
Treeless, moulded, never still,
the passing clouds define the moors.
Looking from the bus, to folds and lies,
black ditches dark as witching lies
and creeping rocks that then stand still:
a single raven, on a wall, surveys the moors,
for on these moors, not like home, still lies...