Tuesday, 23 October 2018


Up on the moors,
Among the bog cotton and heather, 
Millstone grit boulders,
Bilberries, bracken,
Lie a lad and lass together.
One is pale and shaken, 
Wretched, weak and broken.
It’s not Cathy and Heathcliffe,
Out in wind and weather,
For all he’s swarthy, black eyed, ‘other’,
It’s Mohammed and Chloe,
And she’s also had his brother,
And his best mate, Rashid, or someone or other. 
And peaty water is soaking through her jeans,
And she’s cold and shaking,
And she knows what he means 
When he promises he’ll see her tomorrow.
He’s going to leave her here,
Up on the moors,
Among the bog grass and the heather,
Under empty grey sky,
With just the lonely curlew’s cry
To remind her she’s alone,
Miles away from her mother.

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