A Pennine Platform

First snow
down from stiff hills.

Winter taking over.

Moorland
level from Shelf’s distance
capitulates, has no
reason to resist.

Not one faint trace of track
seeks to challenge sky, and,
unaided, three sparse Sunday villages,
trapped within the echoes of their own
frozen belfries, lie smeared
beyond Denholme Gate; grit-block-black
struck on white china,

scrape of spent coffee grounds
flawing sky-grey.