I died out on these moors, my bones are here.
I feel them in the pooled reflections in mud,
the wind in the bare gorse and the crows’ flight.
Later, in the mines, under weight of rock
darkness enfolded around me. No hope.
I knew I would die when the lamp guttered out.
The next time I was spared the mines labour.
Instead they sent me off to their war in France.
No grave when a shell blows flesh apart.
Many times I have died at my fireside.
I once burned in flames for heresy.
Never have I died in the sea.
The death I would wish for is the pure one
with the mist and the crow on the moor,
to rest in my own land forever at home
The Dreaming Path 