It is a stormy night, and I have just driven home over the Woodhead Pass – one of the inspirations for this poem. It seemed apt to repost.

Worldly Winds


I remember the daily grind through the Peaks;

from Hillsborough to hospice.

Morphine induced twilight hours,

brittle brown heather hair,

cascading watery cataracts,

crashing, weeping, winding.

I know each bend like the veins in my hand;

the outcrops and falling rocks.

Spray from the lorries,

thrown up, muddy teardrops,

sliding down the windscreen,

breaking limits, breaking hearts.

This is the road to hell.

© Death of a Minor 24.05.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo credit : photo credit: <a href=””>Romeo66</a> via <a href=””>photopin</a> <a href=””>cc</a>

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