Night pillows me between extremities.
North, the bleak wet playground of the Moor
loamy with fog and ancient history
its richest crop the bumper sprawl
of tourist cars, a rash of chrome
in prickly summer heat. Its season
is out of season.
the dual carriageway’s drone-and-whistle
throbs a splinter under the nail of sleep.
Its season is convenience.
I dream violence
a sudden severing of slip-roads
tyre scream, eel-twitch of tarmac
pumping tail-backs. Cities
dislocate, drift apart.
A clockless aeon later
out on the Moor, in moonrise
thunder and rainstorm, a megalith
stirs, yawns, opens mica-shot
and blood-hungry eyes, heaves
granite bulk inch by heathery
gorse and bracken inch
straight for town.