We canter up their scree slopes
with our backs to the wind.
Here is fierce, bold, a
woken snake sliding out over a man’s bare thigh.
Cold air ready to bite us off of the stoneway.
And the gorse breathes,
rising out over and under the hands.
The day printing us into the underbelly.
Crisping, here comes the night.
To the west it can be seen, slow,
closing the heads of the valleys
and the faces of the flowers.
Burn-cloud tatters of the awe setting, the orb death:
The sun sets
and over the moor we
are not watching
for a pebble that clicks.
from spoor treads
into the sharp stream