LOW CLOUD OVER THE PENNINES

Cloud comes comatose, breasting-troughing rugged peaks

like tall ships sailing in, restlessly craving shipwreck.

A curlew’s rising cadence conjures seas that breach

serried dunes of hills, slant as listing timbers.

As broiling clears to slow-rousing wakefulness

and dawn of definition,  mute tumble of stones

beneath my feet spread rumours of an arrival:

the dream-ravaged mariner who,

now freed from sleep’s parentheses,

in clasp of startled dalehead beck

lies suddenly there, collapsed at my feet;

tufted grass his tousled hair,

sneezewort his wild, staring eyes –

a day-tinged ghost who’s breathing still,

lips glistening salt, delirious with waves.