This is the earth, a portion of it –

the boundary of Wicken Hill

and the line of sight over farms,

moorland, a scattering of houses,

the alert wolf of Heptonstall

Church – these sixteen acres

set above the town like a jewel,

a throne of stillness, a green eye.

In spring there will be hares

leaping under foot in the smoky

dawn and sky-falls of lapwings,

their porcelain of broken nests,

the vetch coming, coltsfoot,

starbursts of clover and trefoil

and when the hay is high lacings

of gold spiders; but it is winter,

trees are wiry sculptures,

rooks carved in the branches,

the only things living, it seems,

crows, and the fox at night

getting his dinner, setting

his trail in this year's snow.

The land is tardy now and wet,

the earth spongy with springs

running over millstone grit

a few feet down – you can hear them.

Put your hand where the ground

opens to the blood warmth,

lie and draw the heat as if

your body were a divining rod,

above you the sky a vast lens

and you its aperture, clouds

beasts dispersing across a field

or souls queuing to enter heaven.