Entry: HOPE HILL by Michael Burgess

HOPE HILL 
by Michael Burgess

Rounded Hope hill shapes
firm and high
above
Salts Mill
below.
Atop, it does not teeter, jut, crag,
or shout summit,
but simply falls away
to start its slow and sedged descent
through wood, glen and tramway,
towards that river
giving of its name
to this valley ground.

Bell-pits dimple a surface, plateaued
by time.
Its trig-point panorama takes in
two now larger and cleaner cities
than those that once chimneyed
their toxic smoke across this heathered land.
The moors grow beyond,
tending to their own horizons.

On a clear day the village of Saltaire
glances up to see
Hope hill. A sky beckoning.
Climb, walk its contours,
hollows, paths.
Scramble and touch
the weathering rocks.
Follow its streams, turns and
silent ways.
Breathe.
And breathe again.