Before this line of shore was touched by tide
or ever let the force of moon inside
or this risen land abandoned in the air
with its cargo of grief undreamed and bare,
before sun trembled on the skin of clay
or coaxed trees from dark up to the day,
or twilight ever closed the blue of sky
to open night to colour’s quiet cry,
before the first bird soared over this moor
or sensed insects stir on amber ground
or silence so longed for the echo of sound
that it lured from the sea the strangers here,
before hands unravelled rocks from the hill,
or set stone upon stone to stall the wind
or smoke raised the black breath of earth to air
the secrets the bog held for fire to tell,
in the cry of a well that slips from dark
the earth began to dream you; how it would
polish from precious stones dust for a face,
from tears of sycamores tone for your eyes.
Between us the lost years insist on dreams
that stir like crows among invisible ruins
disturbed by relics of laughter left in rooms
long after weather broke in where we had been.