poetry@cheviotwalks

 

 

 

 

THE CHEVIOT: OCTOBER                                

 

October stirs,

rises with the dawn,

climbs slowly across

your broad, brown back.

 

It is a silent day,

cool on this solemn hill,

peat pools

black as liquorice.

 

A cloud descends,

a cataract across

this drowsy hill.

Horizons disappear.

 

It is a quiet day,

high in Northumberland.

Time drifts,

soft as a whisper.

 

October bears me

no mischief.

 

 

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