Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Tarred roads, metal cattle-grids and wheel tracks mesh

so tightly no land can escape. Tractor ruts

cut deep into the grass to cross and double-stitch

the fields together. Where the high ground pushes upwards,

pylons rigid with electricity stand guard

upon the hills. Bridges staple running water,

lines of fence-posts nail the valley sides in place.

Rain and ploughed mud. Rooks’ cries claw the air,

a banshee trapped in corrugated iron shrieks

to be released. Trees grasp at nothing,

and let go. It is a scene a child has painted,

splashing colours on sodden paper:

his carelessness might tear a mountainside apart.

Shingle being ground to nothing on the river-bed,

the clouds’ silence soaking into the hills –

these are secrets I dare not tell

even to myself. They give weight

to every moment of my life.