Drystone

by Chris Powici

another winter’s ice and rain
the drub and scrape of hoof and horn
and these last lichen-riddled slabs
could creak and drop
to the bare, wet moor

but not yet

they stand and cling, they lean
against the blue May sky
the bright wind

a wheatear whistles from its granite nook
and a blackface ewe
pushes through the swaying broom
rubs her tatty arse against this poor, half-fallen dyke
and offers up a bleat or two
in praise of stone