On The Fells

Hawthorn twists like the Lacoon Battling serpents of boughs around its loins It mouths a devil's shriek From a gnarled hole at its throat Its bark is strips of skin Charred in the burning agonies of a witch Stinging nettles guard its writhing roots It is all pricks and tares A tree of cruel defences, drawing blood Far beneath the Fells, those undulating mounds Like sleeping ruminants Deep in their very bowls, potholes gurgles Satan's twisted plumbing This is a bleak land. Lambs kneel on stony ground Tugging milk from the withered teats of their dams A six-barred gate creaks mournfully Under the weather. Its strings of tears Are wobbling, a fragile abacus Bone-chilled on the rutted cart-track A single carrion crow, caws a harsh halloo