Its only defences now, a ring of gorse,
sown yellow in Winter,
its lights diminished come Summer.

Beyond, the mossy gums
of trench and rampart,
gateways that open to the view only

and a stone pile marking the centre,
where my horse threatens beneath me,
jittery from the long gallop,

veins mapping under her skin,
over her twitching muscle;
her nostrils, full of smoking embers.

The land is three-sixty about you here,
an answer to any question, stitched with river silver,
so I think I understand why the man who lost his son

comes here only in bad weather,
when he can lean full tilt
against the wind’s shoulder,

take the rain’s beating, the hail’s pepper-shot
and shout into the storm,
finding at last, something huge enough to blame.