Clarissa Aykroyd




Watson on Dartmoor

I first saw it in sun, edged with yellow
like the dragged note of a violin:

and yet, and yet something just out of tune
like the faintest rot beneath the sweetness.

It’s not of the earth, the moor. You drive
as though ascending – to hell; mist rolled in,

the wet air choked me. The light walked backwards
and vanished. The grey tors grinned down on us.

Holmes would love this, I thought. The touch of drama.
And then came the gates of Baskerville Hall.

Well, you know the rest. But the moor, that space,
that’s what I can’t explain. How it was not

of this world. How its clouds were close enough
to touch, and yet its skies were high enough

to elude my faltering translation.






Clarissa Aykroyd grew up in Victoria, Canada. She has lived in Dublin and now lives in London. Her work has appeared in The Island Review, The Missing Slate and Lighthouse, among others. She was one of Eyewear Publishing’s Best New British and Irish Poets 2016 and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her blog is

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