Liz Kirby
			Fourteen Wide views of open moorland the night winds breathes you, blowing with grey hands.   Its laughter is  thin now. Throat of love that gave me strength. Flow of blood and clear light shining. Grains of what faith could pronounce. Tender bruise, sad and growing pale. What a gentle shiver in my shoulders! Sore muscles so many closed leaves. I hear your generous bell, ringing. The water strays, turns orange converging with the blood in my veins. Long echo and bell of the ear.