The unsilent mountain side is soused
and still and still there's more this day
incessant stair-rod rains and insane gusts
above the black lake's surface ripped in vees
where waterfalls pour milk and we stand alone
in tussocked grass and bog upon a slope
of broken slate that's stacked in steps
into the mists and the unseen bleats of sheep
like us chilled deep into the bone and there
I feel the presence of an angel.
The blue slate quarry house below
is but a pattern nettled on the ground
as if an excavated dig had left and left it so
a fallen monument to men who roofed the world
and to the sons who were called away
to Ypres, Somme and Mons.