Yorkshire Dales

The thin wind may complain in the dry grass –
the mud of autumn rains, gone hard, has left
a red, uneven path that winds across

the ragged hills, black humps against the grey
bent like a farmer's back upon the soil
in patient labour. Neither rain nor shine

will make a difference here; the lonely moors
lie coldly self-sufficient. They won't shed
their reservations with a wintry sun's

attempts at making contact. Short, too short
the shy sun's rays may warm the rough dark slopes
to make their smile last longer than a brief

illumination – when the hour is past
and rain returns they don't bemoan their loss
but fall back on themselves, untouched, to last.