The land is barren on Christmas Day.
Fragments of ferns imprint the Earth;
A solitary deer hides in the mill.
A starving wind reaches from the Irish Sea
And buffets the latent memories, ‘til
Trees are no longer skeletons, and
Children no longer hibernate.
The village hall wafts its cream teas,
Battenbergs; the smell of old wood in the church –
Aroma of memory’s prescience.
And so to The Circle. Surrounded
By trees whose names I never knew.
An encyclopaedia upon the moor’s lectern
Fills in the missing memories
That the roots forgot to grow – Flowers
Become more than rose or daffodil;
Birds become hawk, osprey and sparrow.
Why a circle? Gravity’s contours
Bring me back, time and time again,
Whether dilated or contracted.
Has the Fell always been ruined?
Crumbling stone walls; sections of hedge,
Enclosed and en-ditched.
Is remembrance destruction?
An implanted circle of teeth in the
Moor’s gum, it augments your reflection.