Where I Stood - Poem by Ian Bowen
Scattered villages I view,
from this slope, where sheep roam
in their dirty fleeces of Winter.
A wind from the north, bites,
and the crackle of dead heather,
snaps beneath my booted feet.
Soon I will go down to the shelter
of my beloved valley.
There I will look upwards,
and imagine my figure,
black against the cold mountain.
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