early sun over Hope Valley

early sun over Hope Valley

head back, the sleeping sun
pours her storm black hair
over the tooth broken
shale,
river aglint, in the
pebbled flint,
spilling down
in the trackside gale.

sheep cluster the dark mounds,
like clouds, blown down.
clinging to the sleek curves
that tug the sky round,
to meet dreams
that yawn and splutter
in the dawn.

nestling, within the soft,
downy surge of the land,
is where, the rare
Piccadilly Rose can be found;
its gentle upturned face,
giving away much more
than its hand.

as the rusted ginger tracks
move me on,
there is something inevitable
in my arrival;
something alive
in the brown valley of Hope.
but much more,
for there is
something of the Divine
in all of this.