Circles
Soldier’s Trench is not as you might think.
There are no men in khaki fighting here, throwing
grenades or breaking backs, dodging deadeye snipers
over-the-top.
Greyscalesky blankets the place. There are lumps
of limestone seeking sun, tucked into moor grass
and thistles. Wind riddles old rock, whistles hollow,
and makes bracken bow
on the slopes back towards Baildon.
Not even birds come anymore, scared
by the name,
of being shot out of sky,
of being reminded that ground and earth
exist. There are no songs here, but the stones broken
record, half hummed in the breeze.
Now only ramblers find the place, use the rocks as perches,
eat tin-foil wrapped sandwiches and look out
at Baildon Moor stretching to its limits,
then hills,
then sky.
(First published in In the Red 13, Liverpool John Moores University)
DRYSTONE. 