The blind valley’s full of mineshafts,

sheep stamp in the roofless house,

at every corner a bird flies off.


Each step disturbs the listening grass,

the sun’s work on the worm cast,

the beetle labouring in his universe.


Lichen writes on every cliff

a lucid, undeciphered script;

ferns tremble in the draught.


Bones whiten on the crag,

slow crystals multiply within.

Water makes visible the wind


that’s driving a fine thin tune

through the twigs of the crouching thorn

to chafe it into flower again.