‘Baildon Moor’

Driving home into clouds grubby like washing, 
fading on industrial lines;
sudden shifts of smoke and gold, lichen hanging
in rags from dark stone walls, my Clio ready
to take off on the brow of the hill.
Like his Japanese kite on Sundays
dragging him off his feet
and us, running after, laughing.

Forthcoming in Only Connect, Cinnamon Press.