UNCOVERED.
Iron-cold stones
stride atop a sparkling sea across
from a wild-wood
and come to a stop where the tree
outcrop ceases
and naught but the wind resides.
Quieter than things
alive is granite in half-walled ruins
that demonstrates
age-old silence on plight of keepers\'
trying to shepherd
with rockhard tough will to survive.
Olden-day workers
built around cliff-top homesteads
of rock-cottage strength
meant to hedge sheep but fallen
now to ferny sheets
beweeded by mossy eons of years
Insides akimbo
meant stones had rolled into fields
where streams now hide
one-time house boulders as proof
of failed labour bent
on success, still dressed as in life.
Small every holding
rotted in weathered mould leaves
searchers like me
yearning to find out more about all
those given to hope
of a cliff-top shepherding industry.
Slipped away to death\'s
soul-flight their schemes still rise
from moorland mound\'s
uncovered token-find surprises
as fight\'s remains turn
slowly into finality\'s stony debris