Gregory Hill

In the wind that slides over the ocean slopes of Cat Gill
And falls like water through Warthermarske at dusk
There is no news but old news,
And the old roads are empty but for keepers and grockles.

In the bird call that echoes over Roomer
Comes no echo of Roman sandals
And the Celts who farmed above Nutwith
Are long gone.

But on this hill
Where Charlie the old horse pulls at the winter grass
And looks down the long furrows
That stream away through the field to the river’s meeting
I can touch fingers with the last of the kings of this little country
And be the watch tower.