Of
Hollyhocks and Brambles by John Stocks
It was the kind of place you stumble on When the mist clears suddenly Breaking the rhythmic pattern of the walk. Nestling by a stream, below the mountain Walls of cool grey limestone, grey grass withered Under dry stalks of dead hollyhocks Where life is twisted thoughts, tangled like briars. Who lived and died here, why did they leave? And who closed the door for the last time? Cocooned against the moorland storm They gasped a first breath, washed and cried Tears from the cool dark water of the stream Dreamed of kisses soon to be stolen. Did they imagine the timbers charred A trespass of nettles in the parlour This lifeless plateau of dereliction? Or how this place might stir the soul Of some lonely, solo traveller Still many miles from home.
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