They heard it through wind fire, waving bent grasses.
They heard it susurrus through gaps in grey stones.
A gentle hand dragging, plucking attentions
A pleading through darkness of moss drawn plantations.
“Come down from your moorland, come down from your hill, we need you to care us and wind us in tightly. We need you, we need you, come down from your hill”
Spread-wave rolling from light veined valleys.
It caught on the hems of the moor, tattering, un-walling
Welled from the depths of red rich dependencies
Filling and pooling at each feather lined hollow
“Come down from your mountain, come down from your peak, press yourself to me, gather round me and love me. Come down, come down, come down from your hill”
Winding through high flatlands of bog-oak torn tendrils
Drowning the catch a glance rising, miring long shank bent beak.
Cloying sedge tendrils and filling peat footprints
Taking your frost breath before even it was thought.
“Come from your Iceness; come now from your wildness. Come now when I need you to wrap me up warm. Hold my grey head to your body and whisper me lifeness. Just come down, come down, come down from your hill.”