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Philip Miller

You cannot go there again,

but you are home every night,

where the river deepens the dale

from dry moorland to the light

of the ruined motte and bailey

where they once killed killers

who stole food or crossed the Lord,

or carved steps in the devil’s stone

to grind corn and bake bread

for our two lives,

both living and dead.

Now the crows have landed,

on the eyes of the scarecrow.

And yellow foam gathers

at the bend of the waters.

The candles cannot be lit,

and the fields cannot be sown.

Downstairs in the night

you have floated or flown

towards this valley of stones

both grave pit

and home.