David E Anson muddypoetry

Round scars face the moorland.

A jumble of boulders and leaner slabs;

can this be a settlement?

I struggle to imagine crudely woven cloaks,

stinking furs flapping

in a stone age wind.

Did those men lie on their backs

looking at the stars?

Did they watch the shadows pass?

Or guess the snow fall

or watch the robin gather his moss?

Our eldest son leaps from one stone

            to

another.

Held breath as he nearly falls

but with a mountain goat’s sure foot

he scrambles impossibly over time.