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Black Mountain Chapel
by Peter Wright
On the wild windswept hills
Of heather, hedges and tussocky fields,
A pathway to God is found
Under the curlews' cry.
Above the course of the Clun,
Through simple gate and gravestones,
They come with care worn hands
Gnarled by years of plough and earth.
Home spun and wool, spruced Sunday best,
Shined boots, carved sticks to walk the hills,
Voices soaring over reed and bellow,
Preaching and praying for heaven's bounty.
Now a high buzzard's hunting calls
And wind haunting among the graves,
Echoes of the long-gone, god-fearing,
Whose labour and whose dreams
Dwell in these stones.
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