"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
The crest above the grassy plains dominates the outlook; its raw-boned peaks threatening to pierce the very fabric of the sky, as beneath its jutting crown mislaid senses of distant lands lie buried beneath the snowpack: The fabricated whispers of spinning jennies cast as muted echoes in the ice, …
Beneath dusted peaks of mountain dew A dense and rigid backcloth skulks, Worn down and compacted with Fractured decades of aged powder; Trodden into rocky outcrops To lie barrenly against This frozen, ancient soil. Subtle shifts of these forgotten rocks Ripple across subterranean sediments, Dislodging once-stable foundations That now cascade …