Sue Papworth
Farmhouse On Cartworth Moor
There is no roof to Elysium.
Under the elms, stone slabs
thick as a man’s fist arch the spring,
roots split by their falling.
Stone stairs lead to nowhere in the barn:
rooftimbers crack in the drying wind
and the house aches
in the shelter of numbered trees.
Limed and lidless windows do not look
to where water blinks in the valley,
or across the skyline firs approach,
massing silently to march down the fields.
Page(s) 29
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