Nibbled at the edges by prosperity
But still triumphant. A brooding
Winter cloud on Ilkley, hiding
The rising and the setting sun.
In summer, a maze of bracken tracks.
A graced outcrop of grey stones, but
Still without end to the eye,
Rising up further than feet can fret.
On top, a waste land, bog and fire scarred.
Comfortless, only the sky to please, or
The unrecognisable hills to north and south.
Only lovers or the passing blind at ease.
So many facets; the scurry of pine wood
Clinging high up; the smooth sheep grazing grass
Below; the quarry’s desolation collecting
Rubbish alike in stone, wood and steel.
All crawled over by boots, slipped by shoes,
Knurled by tyres, dug, piped, shot over,
Still hides all winter in cold, grey emptiness
And is new each spring as the bees leave the clay.