The Rig Weeps,
a poem by Kate Campbell:
Dark larches reach the cloud and stars
Above a white-grass marsh; the moor
Where shepherds tended sheep and stills
And old stones still guard ancient lore
Where frosty trails wind up the rig
And Mossy Burn half-frozen flows.
The night is quiet. The wind is tired.
In the still air the owl laments.
The old ewe coughs, an eerie sound.
A slate cracks loose from Beltondod
And, shaking off a nail-sick clasp,
Drops split and shattered to the ground.
The moon-drenched moss sucks underfoot
Soft swathes of mist wrap through the pines
And, soaked and sharp, reeds brush on reeds
As you and she go hand in hand
Around the hill where your souls sang
Up to the well that healed all hearts.
The land you walk from now, bereft,
Lies wounded down.
And the stones stay silent,
As Spartleton sighs
And the rig weeps crystal tears.
© Kate Campbell 2020