On the land they now call Linley, that was
once terror-formed by the hand of man
into a coal pit
and then a town dump,
that was a wasteland,
that, underfoot, is still,
I stood, facing south to the sun.
The frost, being unset by her,
bejewelled the grass.
The near-distant harshness of cars
as I stood on the summit,
watching, being warmed by her heat.
The bright blue sky
was the wash on which she painted herself
and the picture, her portrait,
was too beautiful to see.