On these high fells
Open to every weather,
Where no man walks for pleasure,
Hawks go hungry
And sheep
Munch all day for a living
A hundred and three
Steel reapers, straight
As a tree–trunk, armed
Each with three whistling scythes
Straddle the wilderness
Reaping the one sure crop.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 2005–2021. All rights reserved.