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,
Cool bag gets colder,
Transistor music seeps across the moor.
Content to be still, quiet
No wristwatch, no time
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.