Up The Valley

The nation’s loneliest building

is anchored deep,

steel legs wrapped in wire,

and this looped on trusses.

Here, the wind has no quarter;

it roams and howls, tugging

at the grey iron, bowing the walls.

There is one inhabitant – a

Land-Rover parked on dust.

It is canvas and steel and wear

plopped on thin gnarled tyres;

it is something you must touch;

you feel the frost and the wind

and the river dust; it is in the

handles and under the rim.

There are foot marks – a lost

traveller or an intruder come west,

where the river is glacial grey,

wanders and surges and, everywhere

the light hints that summer has left,

that here, autumn’s breath is near

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