Sing ye from the hillsides

Sweeping moorland, three counties on view

Insistent wind from the North.

Generator turning, turning.

Keeping the lights on

And the beer flowing.

Cosy tent, in the lee of a rock

Out of the way.

Hand made egg mayonnaise, salty capers,

You definitely need two layers,

Sea Power sound check.

Warm in the pub, fire lit

Summer hasn’t arrived up here,

No matter what the BBC says.

Signal high up, none among the outcrop

Flimsy perimeter fence dances,

Plastic ribbons, waving flags,

Waving goodbye.

Cool bag gets colder,

Transistor music seeps across the moor.

Content to be still, quiet

No wristwatch, no time

Who cares?

Barman says its it’s going to blow tonight,

Taps the barometer authoritatively,

See 20 mph already, he says laughing.

Tent pitched in a scooped out hollow,

Sheltering from the sky

Close the flap, respite from

The landscape, never ending.