Easter Hail Stones, Hanlith Moor
The sky is surly today,
reluctant to twist the veil
and clothe us in its blue lining.
Spring trees are barely clad,
still stretch out their limbs
in dark longing.
After Gordale Scar refuses us
the moors embrace our feet;
saturated soil clogs our boots.
Then, sudden and brutal,
the weather front drops its pretence,
drapes us with white-out.
Hail stones beat and batter
any flesh exposed to its blows.
Visibility shrinks before our gaze.
This cold pierces Gortex layers,
stabs to the bones.
Cheeks redden from its flail.
Then, it is as if a hand
reaches down and lifts the scourge,
switches on the light.
There is a lane, pointing
in roughly the right direction.
On naked elders, birds start to celebrate.
We breathe new life
into stinging fingers,
raise bruised faces to the sun.
Hannah Stone has been widely anthologized and published…
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