Where’s my voice?
Disappeared along lanes,
tapering beyond Chorley.
Had it gone in transit, at one fixed point,
a pinprick on a mystical route
through Prague to Istanbul,
along borders of richly textured exotica,
I would have retrieved it in full order,
plucked out as one distinctly English
among foreign tongues.
It vanished into moorland,
dark and brooding hills
that never lighten mood
or give back among low winds
scraping dull grass against stony soil.
Its secrets kept beyond twinkling lights
of townships scattered below,
where people huddle against the cold.