Featured Poem

The Naming of Stones

Petrified being map the moor:

the Twelve Apostles, the Cow and Calf,

the Lanshaw Lad who’s never embraced

the Lanshaw Lass across the Delves.

I dip a finger in Weary Stone’s cups,

spill the rain from hollowed pools.

The pock-mark rock was worked and scored

millennia ago. We search the tomes

for sketches of the Badger, Neb

and Pepperpot, their rings and rungs,

the crosses with their curling arms

engraved in grit. I don’t care

to speculate their role or meaning.

We part the fronds of damp bracken

unsure what we’ll find beneath:

the petroglyphs of ancient art

or recent scrawls of names and dates,

hearts like bruises on the rock

exposed to sky, licked by weather,

framed in greens of lichen, moss.