You play The ride of the valkyries
I play Conquest of paradise
You drive down Mulholland
I go through my village to the moor
Your landscapes are mountains
And deserts, lands open of fear
My hillsides are for shepherds
For winds, and cheek red tears
I turn, full round in either direction
In this twilight the twinkles
Of the cities illuminate the depths
Of the valleys, indicate the journeys
To the centres of our earths
In a cosy pub, away from your mother
With your mates, light ale, or the new mixture
Of lager and ice cold Irish cider; you say
You won't stay long, before you get on home
To the television and the chatter
Yes, the natter of what you did with your day
Not that it matters, unless of course
You've confounded everyone and got a job
Or once again picked up the calendar
With artwork by Vermeer, or passed the scent
Of lilies in bloom, or explained how to develop
The recipe of sauce for Beef Wellington
And if you do hear us say, without thought… if only
If you had a caravan
Would that make you
A particular kind of person
If then in November
You camped on the top
Of this most desolate of moors
Would that say something
About how you fit into society
In an hour, or less
It will be total darkness
Later the whisper of silence will arrive
I wonder to knock on your door
But ask myself, are you alone?
A smidgin of pink in a vast grey
A slip of silver white fading to blue
Creases of browns, half full blacks
Dull oranges turning to red
On the other side of the tarmacadam
On the other side of the interrupted
White lines; in both and all directions
Car headlights leave a twinkled glow
Even without the rain, which surely visits
Or has visited already, settled itself down
Into the squidgy peat bogs or drained itself
Off into catchments to by passed escarpments
Bracken-water, for coagulation and chlorination
To become crystal clear and drinkable once more
Yesterday you talked of place
Of the writers three month trip
to the Antarctic; you spoke of the congress
Also of nothingness in everlasting light
On the grey windswept moor
A stones throw from the graves declared
By Brady to torment Longford or to make capital
Out of the somewhat badly affected Myra Hindley
Reed grass angled at a quarter past the hour
Guards over the roughed up rippled water
There are no houses, neither on the horizon
Nor to right or left, human habitats are unseen
Among an unfortunate landscape of tainted beauty
