Yorkshire Giants

Yorkshire Giants
 
I heard him
storming Moor,
echoed, heatherless,  
fleshed in Abbey walls
 
- Rosedale,
where he blew ghosts
far over the edge of Ravenscar,
close to my heart,
 
bay drunk
on his Heaven tears  
made tangible,  
left glimmering upon everything,
 
and he threw dark earth,  
mystical, when wading Esk,  
making a dent
between Dalby trees.  
 
It's the price of an ache, you see,  
waiting out
for a better scent of her,
or just that old, wild scent of her.
 
And he washed thorns from feet
down in Beckhole, splashed,
year on year, lap on lap,  
unpunctured, baptised clean.
 
I heard him,  
as a wolf on the line,
turning me into space and matter,
calmer for being there
 
and everything,
everything
has been ascending as great, green trains
full of smoke ever since,  
 
that rhythmic
puff, puffing
through the heart of Grothsbladder
or was it Goathland or perhaps Grosmont
 
up into the mind,  
dimensionless,  
where rough fingers
are pressed down on gorse,
 
soul no longer creating auras,
wilder blueberry-blood ageing,
quite unlike ours,
not pouring out over spikes and thistles
 
anymore and, you know, amidst those pines,  
in solstice 'shine,  
I lose recall of his face,
falls away, running.
 
His future not wasted,  
by feral, hasty movements,  
still rising,  
a hilltop reclines.