Ungrimming

Bleaklow, Black Hill ...
How apt, I thought, such names
for these grim tumuli of giant kings
Threadbare grass a figleaf
for their dark peat hearts
and sucking, suppurating
cesspools of decay.

I learned to love their cussedness;
to find a kind of beauty
in those sullen curves
that pay no heed to human life;
came to respect the shrug
of massive shoulders that declares
‘we are what we are’.

But not today: today
the sun sought out their depths,
the hills responded
not with grey or brown
but shimmerings of golden green.
No longer ogres but old ladies putting on
their summer dresses one last time.

I felt glad for them,
surprised that even in these
monuments to resignation
there is hope.  

First published in Pennine Platform