Now wild and whistling through the green and brown of winter
But not wilderness
Layers of footsteps trod down over years
To work, to market, to church, to dance, to drink, to meet
Walking on reshaped land, thrown up in the delve for stone:
the mill owners house
Then walkers, ramblers, hikers enjoy the sweep and swoop of the hills
Watching mills, canal, trains, road and river below
And houses creeping up the slopes
Not wilderness, more the rich strata of human trace
But feeling wild now
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