Monday, 21 July 2008


I wrote this poem a while ago. The Bridestones are a gritstone outcrop in the South Pennines, close to Todmorden.


From one angle
it looked
like the head
of a man.

I climbed up.
The grit slashed
the pale skin
on my knuckles.

I held on-
to the nose-bridge,
pressed down
onto the cheekbone,

rested my hands
on the forehead,
looked at the sky
reflected in the rain-

-pool worn
into the rough pate
of the stone.
I rested there,

a temporary statue,
relishing the touch
of a dark moon,
newly inhabited.

(c)Dominic Rivron 2000

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