Here's the other poem I found.
The trees on the hillfort lean away from the gale
Like greyhounds escaping from the leash.
Their leaves combed from the whipping branches
By a callous hand. Strewn in tousled heaps,
They fetch up against the hedge-roots,
Jittering like nervous lovers, then forcing themselves
Through bare branches like water through a colander.
Gleaming puddles lie on the sullen ploughed fields,
Their surface ruffled by the wind into irritated shivers,
Reflecting the lemon lollipops of the last hazel leaves
Which prance in the stripped hedgerows.
A gleam of lime green on Merlin's Hill
Is wiped out by a fist of clouds, which
Scud along the valley and as I look behind me, others
Drag their tattered petticoats across Black Mountain and beyond.
Right - all packed, the first car load anyway. I'll take some furniture in the morning (chairs and a couple of small tables). The last thing to go at the back of the carload was Keith's wheelchair. Tam will bring him down this afternoon to have a look around. We'll go round together, and then I'll set up, but have to stay there until 7 p.m. tonight, which is when they shut and lock the back sheds where I am.