The Shoot

Peat hag winds her charm of finches

gold from lead, bred from earth,

over empty halls hidden by branches

of birch woven in heath’s hearth.

Props rot, earth fails, ling shifts.

Gold from lead, bred from earth.

Beater treads on glass breathe shafts,

the smelted moor smoulders hot,

props rot, earth fails, ling shifts.

Grouse are peppered with lead shot,

air is filled with laughing cry

and the smelted moor smoulders hot.

Guns to shoulder, eyes to sky.

Windy King turns. Stops still

as air is filled with laughing cry.

Rocks chock veins of black gill.

Peat hag winds her charm of finches

and Windy King turns. Stops still.