Saddleworth Moor

Saddleworth Moor

This is the place where time has died
and earth has eaten its past.
Once these lands were forests.
You find their bones -
the trees’ bones,
shrinking into icy brown fingers
with dust and decay of heather 
interred in the peaty black.
There’s grass – shivering grass -
and strange green
stunted cowering vegetable entities
and the silent white trumpets
of the lichen,
poaching life from 
an almost invisible green spot
by a grey-black pool  -
and a Plover keens
a dying fall.

These are the troll stones –
massive grey mimics
of unknown fabled creatures
too dreadful to live
too strong to die
shaped by a carving wind
howling like a child’s cry
digged into the past.

Somewhere.
Somewhere there are bones.

◄ Big Dusty Man

Gods et. ►

Comments

<Deleted User> (18474)

Mon 26th Nov 2018 22:29

Watch out Wolfgar, there's a new boy in town.
This is the best poem I've read, ever.
I'll leave it at that.
Beno.

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Alan Travis Braddock

Sun 25th Nov 2018 11:37

Thanks folks. I love these wild moorlands and have tramped and camped them for years. The terrible associations of murder and lost children are frightening and, sadly, detract from their lonely beauty.

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kJ Walker

Sun 25th Nov 2018 08:35

We used to pass through Saddleworth Moor when we had relations living in Cheshire. The beauty of the place is stunning, but that pales into insignificance because of what happened there. We can't drive through the place without thinking of those poor souls.

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Adam Whitworth

Sat 24th Nov 2018 15:04

Strong poetry. very well done Alan. I didn't realise why I'd heard of Saddleworth Moor at first but the writitng is so wonderful that it stands in any circumstances, and I'm very glad of that.

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