The Quarry at Haytor

Each numb bud
held in a vice
locked beyond echo
in its chamber of ice:

and the waterfall solid,
clipped to the sill
of the high scarp,
acutely still.

In the pent silence
we made birds sing,
shared the pulse
of water quickening:

and as we watched,
by our warm power
the soft-fleshed trees
burst into flower.

Later, autumn
rusted the heather
...