At Peckett’s Rock


The cold empty heavens slowly turned overhead,
Interwoven with blue clouds and silver steel threads,
As the moon-contoured woods rode the saddle-less night
And we stumbled our paths in the rolling torchlight
Up the gnarled, furrowed spine of vertiginous stone
To emerge at the summit, in darkness, alone.
We could feel the chill draught blowing up from the trees.
Far below us the bowl of the valley was wreathed
In a soft, moving patchwork of shadows and night.
In our nest at the top of the world, here we might
Reach the stars and with fumbling, outstretched hands stir
Up the folds of the Milky Way into a blur.

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