Trace the skyline, Highdown’s burning bright,
Iron clouds drag the sun across the night.
I press my ribs where your lightning left a seam,
Still hearing engines in the ridges of a dream.
We ran the ridge-road, laughing like a war,
Your jacket flapping like a broken semaphore.
Now the static sings where our promises fell,
And every echo answers with a distant church bell.
So I keep climbing, though the air gets thin—
No summit, just the ghost of you under my skin.