Bodmin Moor

Poem By Mike Tonkin

The moor is at it’s best
In autumn, with the air
Full of moisture, the place
Closed in
And melancholy.
One feels a sadness
That summer is over, .
But the season is rich
With the vivid colours
Of dying vegetation,
Colours that give you
Hope, for the future
Breathe them.
Bushy lichins and
Ferns grow
In secret places,
The Marsh Fritillary
Rivers are clean
And Dippers live
Looking for food
In the fast flowing
And Skylarks sing.
Flat rocks piled
One on the other
And rocking stones
In balance with the
Granite that impervious
Used for buildings
Tombs and crosses
And mans memorials
To himself.
He has walked
The moors
For thousands of years,
Tin and copper
And white china clay
Have been dug,
Woolly Mammoths
And reindeer have
Roamed the land.
But the people
Are gone now,
Cattle, sheep and ponies
Remain, and the moors
Are themselves
Healing the scars
Left by man.
Brown Willy,
You sit up on
The tops for hours
Just watching
The reflection of the
Earth in the sky, .
When evening draws
In, and darkness wraps itself
Around you, the cry
Of a curlew sounds like
The loneliest, the most
Beautiful utterence on

Comments about Bodmin Moor

Utterly beautiful in its isolation! I would love it there! Here in southern California, I have a small house-trailer(which I seem to recall you Britishers call a 'caravan') on a hilltop just a bit off the beaten path, where I can hear coyotes howling in the night and larks singing in the morning. It is not as desolate (or as beautiful) as the moor, but still somewhat wild. Feral burros (donkeys descended from those used by the old gold miners) wander and graze wherever they please. I heard a sniffing sound at the window beside my bed one night-a curious burro was checking me out!
You captured it... 'The loneliest, the most Beautiful utterence on Earth.' Thank you for taking me to the Moor... Colin J...

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