Lightest pale yellow whitening, stretching away moorland grass,
waving with the winds shift, slow gusts flow on the uplands plateau,
distant raven specked black wheel, unhinged mating glide soars,
in white grey clouded skies above the flat worn track.
Sinister Catherine wheeled turbines, hypnotically spin now,
the latest transient seal that this margin land has no value,
this hard edged landscape has no worth in any time,
giant windmills that stud and transfigure the landscape,
the latest scarring, killing the calm of the ghost road,
another sacrifice made of wilderness, and in this time
a land of golden plovers and the call of curlews,
nothing is sacred where sustainability is concerned.
I walked wild on the high slopes when I was a child,
in a sheep trailed playground on black curtained slopes,
on the flat mountain plateau tops, where men once walked,
with open still splayed nerves naked in white daylight,
so many breathless men, taking the air on a Sunday,
in the silence of a long year, in those hardest times
too many deaths, too many sudden unannounced leavings
