A peroxide moment in the smudge of charcoal moor
blanches the silence that smothers and buries.
The punctum purge of history-made-myth
seeps from eyes that look not out
but up at those behind the lens
whose presence, like a stain,
seeps deep into the earth
of her blackening soul.
A procedural fan of the bowed and the bidden
comb heather and peat as the children hide
and the bog men lay quiet as the grave.
On cumulus grey earth tread feet booted
and weighted like punnets of soil,
the lumber of terrain that gives
up its ghosts as the years
and the mud fall away.
A wind-sythed knoll in the shadow of a day
that refuses to break: out there, beyond
the conurbated gloom of a city astir,
where the hoe meets the grain
of a passion spent, and broken
young bones lie bleached and
untroubled as the brook that
doesn't shine babbles on.