Six Poems

Ancient Juniper

Lean soil it prefers, fast rockhold.
I watched one outface a storm –
a manor house hotel near Darlington,
first-floor bay window of a conference room
chairs stacked along the stone hearth, baby grand
dustcovered, anyone might
wander in there, looking for the gents
then watch a bit: sleet being dragged
plough disc against the moor
at speed of headlights.
Half a field interlude between each crescent.
Really it was it being dusk, grey
dusk, the dusk somehow
participating in the sleet that gave
each pulse the look of dingy steel.
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