Dark Satanic Hills

Up above the grinning Clough,

Sky and land stand hand in hand.

Sullenly waiting fate’s command,

Stone dead, but alive with might,

Grit stone Goliaths growl through day and night:

Aceldama could not have less invite.

The squall scoured cheeks of the blackened moor

Scowl and furrow in infinite quest,

“Only Promethium fortune can make us so poor,

Are we by the devil blessed?”

Below sit the abstract sacks,

Solemn sepulchres wait on future’s past.

In a graveyard sculpted by Henry Moore,

A shivering mountain surrenders its Tor.
Over deep veined valley’s perilous stacks sit,

In steep foreboding, aligned, like bears in a pit.

Clouds threaten and the sky folds black,

The lightning daggered in glinting attack,

Thunder summons with a moribund crack:

In an instant, all time rolls back.
If there is a purpose for this deep scourged earth,

It can only to be,

The perfect promontory

From which to see,

The end of days

As this hard land is engulfed by sea.



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