Aileen stayed in the four wheel drive.
This was the sensible thing to do.
The wind was pure unpleasantness,
Slinging the rain like fistfuls of gravel,
Beating the gnarly stones. They looked
Friable, like left-over wodges
Of dirty snow. When I imagine
A priesthood for these places I see
Such men and women as Stukeley emoted
In oakleaf coronets- not today;
This weather favours no ghosts but the slatted,
Air-treading low-lives of Gibbet Hill.