The Empty Hills

empty-hills

The hour hangs. Our minds ignite. Our trapped and troubled souls awake.
Here moves the hand that stops the clock. It’s time to make the great escape.
We drift through shadow figures now. No need to stop and reason why.
The tiers of the town give way to the impossible cinema screen of the sky –
Two tiny shapes in silhouette, on abstract films of ink in milk
The desolation’s drawn us back. The stained and grubby patchwork quilt
Of brown fields drowned in flattened moors, where black, serrated woods lie still.
We’ll pour the contents of our heads into these silent, empty hills.

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