I am not in awe

of the galvanised cross –

shining tall though scratched,

graffiti paint clotting 

at welding joints.

Geological forces

are much less wary-making

than two men 

scrambling through ivy

unbalanced by heavy rucksacks.

Miners cleared out graves

to get to limestone,

and weathering left

igneous dolerite proud, 

resistant to dropped chip forks.

On a downhill path 

I pick late blackberries 

but a lone man 

sidles into trees,

disappears as a front approaches.

Near to the estate,

the quiet comfort

of a million pale leaves

touching the faces of 

those closest to them, very gently.