After hours of silence and the velvet
of peat cloughs, the road
from Manchester cuts the moor
like an act of violence.
I cross by a hot-dog van,
scabs fall off my boots, a clag of moss
from Soldier's Lump. I drink sweet tea
in the mist, the next ten miles
are over a quagmire.
Strange place
to be selling hot dogs, I think.
Them nippers were buried out there,
the vendor says, turning his burgers.
He nods his head towards the moor,
we still get the sightseers.So this is Saddleworth? I can picture
the gaunt, blonde murderess, smoking
a cigarette, watching the road,
Brady unrolling the carpets, cracking
puns with every strike of the spade.
He's a brainy one this one,
a right little bleeder. I move on through the flutings
of peat bog, the drizzle of rain,
only me and the moss breathing,
everything else dead. The bleached
rib of an animal curls from the ground
like the heart of a flayed orchid.
Under my feet, the bodies of children
swim to the clear, sweet water table.
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