At Bingley Three Rise

Like an opened grave, the chamber

Falls away beneath me, stone walls rough and wet

Water sprays through the mitred gates

As from some monstrous cold urethra

A push or an inadvertent step

Would bring an awful death in that bleak trench

There’s not a soul in sight

Just the presence of the pressing pound

And the playful and exuberant sound

Of water going home