Poetry

That Bare Hill

By Deborah Moffatt

Up there on that bare hill
you wouldn’t dare dream
of a summer day, of grain
ripening in the hot sun,
of the kiss of a soft wind
on the back of your neck,

not now, in sleet and snow,
ewes lambing, winter lingering,
a light burning through the night,
fingers fumbling on accordion keys
to pass the time, The Primrose Polka,
to speed the season, The Family Pride,

dancing feet in the village hall,
cloven hooves in the mucky straw,
footprints all over that damn hill,
the Devil himself out on the floor
dancing with your wife, his tracks
leading straight back to your door.