A small heart of homes,
connected by a thread-vein country road
and bird song,
in the fields of morning,
where rays look hopeful
but the skies deny them at the last moment.

The meadows push the eye,
up past the post office
and the farmer's abandoned tractor,
over the horizon
and out into the distance,
where nobody knows what may lie.

Here in a damp forever dusk,
where lights are on
but offer no comfort to the wandering,
a strange longing is often drawn,
pulling from some unknown source,
towards a time that could have been.

Here on a Yorkshire moor,
at a time of day it's hard to pin down,
in a month whose name I cannot place,
in a place I cannot name,
I wander.