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By Rose McDonagh
Standing here on the moors,
I imagine them,
darkened faces turned
against the wind,
walking through light rain
with the scent of heather and wet earth
rising up around them,
and a baby crying
in a soft leather pouch
slung over someone’s shoulder.
And, when night slides in
on the backs of roosting birds,
I imagine them looking up to the sky
their eyes bright with fearful glints,
watching the sun setting red
like the heart of a fire,
and I imagine some of them are shivering
with a sense of the future
certain and heavy
as beating hooves.
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007