shadows, seeking fingers, creep across the moor
as clouds roll over
a slag of suggestive, rococo cloud
reclines upon the hill’s haunches
a pregnant Welsh pony whinnies
hysterically into the wind
the roosters’ chorus answers, rises from the village
the squirrels are barking
a teenage fawn hesitates on the edge of the pines
in a cathedral in Hexham
I watch the organist practise
trundle through a hymn
the wind cannot be felt in here
but trees snap, crash across the road
the smell of torn vegetation
I am stranded
and later we hear a woman in Ireland
was blown off a cliff in her caravan
