Too Beautiful

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

surrounded me

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,

her face,

was too beautiful to see.