A Walkhampton Man

A cross, half-formed, angles out

From the slope of Gutter Tor.

Carved in-situ, once upright,

Now it leans, pointing North West,

Partially hidden from the sun.

Green moss, laid thick,

Despoils the surface,

Already cracked and scarred

From biting wind and rain.

Slowly, in a time

Measured by the season

The Goddess reclaims the stone

Laying it gently down

Back into the waiting earth.

There was a Walkhampton man,

We'll call him Gabriel.

He was fully-formed,

Steeped and matured

On the slope of Knowle Down.

Weather-wise, moss-free,

He knew which way to turn

Against a biting easterly.

All the tricks, the little secrets,

She'd hidden away,

He'd prise out with a crafty gleam,

Hoping she wouldn't see.

And maybe she turned a blind eye,

But in return, and slowly,

A time measured by the season,

She reclaimed him,

Laying him gently down

Back into the loving earth.