We know you’ve got a thing about us,
scuffing the earth at our feet,
giving us a voice. Like this.

We know about the groans we’ve heard,
the yelps in moonlight, rumours of progeny.
Bellies keep pressing us; we decline.

Thunder on the moor and your effeteness
assured, we think of us as crown
whetted on the storm, not bald queans.

We know about the influx of coach parties;
the way their crisp-packet ordinariness
ruffles you, the way they laugh as they count us.

We have tumbled from the sky’s favour.
We know we are emblazoned by tussocks,
heather, hawthorn. We have erred, somehow.

Stars! We look up to them. Clear nights
remind us of their massive dignities;
we know what we have known, but forgotten.

One of us is missing. We know this.
Buffed by the flanks of cows, she swings
a gate. We hear her, complaining, often.

Adrift on moorland, we are tethered.
Far off on a skyline, we have caught you.
We dance what we know; you are frozen.

Cromlechs rise routinely from mists:
we are granite lumps. We know
how ugly we are, and once how lovely.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences