On The Fells Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Hawthorn twists like the Lacoon
Battling serpents of boughs around its loins
It mouths a devil's shriek
From a gnarled hole at its throat
Its bark is strips of skin
Charred in the burning agonies of a witch


Stinging nettles guard its writhing roots
It is all pricks and tares
A tree of cruel defences, drawing blood

Far beneath the Fells, those undulating mounds
Like sleeping ruminants
Deep in their very bowls, potholes gurgles
Satan's twisted plumbing

This is a bleak land. Lambs kneel on stony ground
Tugging milk from the withered teats of their dams

A six-barred gate creaks mournfully
Under the weather. Its strings of tears
Are wobbling, a fragile abacus
Bone-chilled on the rutted cart-track
A single carrion crow, caws a harsh halloo