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:
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?”
Solemn sepulchres wait on future’s past.
In a graveyard sculpted by Henry Moore,
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:
It can only to be,
The perfect promontory
From which to see,
The end of days
As this hard land is engulfed by sea.