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.
Photography by Peter Dillon