Poetry

2014-12-12 10.32.27

The Helm

This wall walks the spine

of Helm Hill, contouring

its crags and valleys,

flanking the Iron Age ramparts

carved from the summit prow.

Walking in north-flung hail

dark forms materialise

like boats berthed in the lee

of a harbour wall.

Behind wild forelocks the

ponies eyes are still –

their breath blown soft, a lip

dropped lightly open. Tails kinked

like plaits unwound, trailing

the hoof-pocked half-white earth.

The cloud moves on, gifting me

the sun and moon –

two pale disks each

holding an equal weight of sky.

Night and day pivot from the tawny

fulcrum of a kestrel’s wings.

She hangs in air; divides the world.