The wind is walking down the telegraph wire
from Top o’th Moor Farm to Moorbottom Road,
swaying in the breeze of its own making,
balancing Blondin-like, no net, just spider’s webs
and whinberry bushes and trees gasping
at the audacity, salaaming to the ringing rope.
Under big tent clouds flung-far birds trapeze the day,
link up in a troop and tour the countryside.
No wild beasts just wind pawing the grass,
leaping from the centre pole of Peel Tower at a walker
with red nose, baggy pants, hair plastered down.
Rain chucks itself in buckets. Thunder cracks its whip.