Hough Hill

Hough Hill







A craggy face dressed up in icicles
Hangs in emptiness where a hill once lived,
Opened up and broken for ruddy sandstone,
Innards ransacked and inner spirits fled.
And when they left a bleak and brutal shroud
Lay on raw shoulders where rivulets wept.
Entry was walking into thunder cloud,
A violent daze of tumult and distress.
Yet the days elapsed and the faraway
Spirits nursing their wounds in distant groves
Reassembled their forms and memory,
Returning drawn by its broken lodestone.
Mosses grew to their caress, joined by fern
And hart’s tongue, wind flung acorns grew to oak
Amidst the rugged heather. Paramount
The prickly gorse became the hill’s defender.
Its quarried half, lost in the numb limbo
Of a phantom limb regained its life again,
But still the snow comes to its cold calling
With drifting balms, soft, warm and consoling.

Denham Quarry







Photography by Peter Dillon


2 thoughts on “Hough Hill

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s