Postcard from the Pennines
We take one of those silver sinewy roads that snake up over the hills
Driving into the mist, listening to Nick Drake
It’s a strange situation
Finding ourselves visitors
To this bleak and melancholy landscape
Where once we made our home
This land, my land
Bruised purple with heather
Her soft curves scarred over with stone walls
And stories of dead children
And villages lying drowned under reservoirs
We park up and tramp like tourists over the rocks
“Desolate,” you say, into the silence
Desolate
Back in the car you put on some Artie Shaw
And we head back south
Into the sunshine