Heather Hill

mist sits thick on the flanks of Heather Hill

I lope up that hillside, faster than any sheep
waterlogged breath joins the swathes of moistness

small plants bend submissively, drenched

the road cowers beneath its blanket
hiding from marauding cyclists

lunch is magnificently damp, without real texture

no view of the sea today
at Heather Hill's wet whitened crown