And as I tread these stark northern hills,
rain clouds the lungs,
infects the vision,
of all who sink, so-far, into these grey horizons.
Two hundred years and more of the very first industrial smog
have sunk, deep, into these stone villages,
set, like concrete, into these
sodden, sheep-ridden hills.
And in the pub
this worn-down, sepia-mid-afternoon light,
shadows a lonely man,
who drinks in the half-light.