The High Moors For M'Lady Tara
I love the beauty of the moors. Those vast expanses wild and free
But I am prejudiced of course; there is no place I’d rather be.
In any season I feel at home. The winte, spring, summer or fall.
Be because I claim the right to roam. There are no rules here none at all.
The only laws are those decreed by mother nature long ago
Thou shalt not kill except to feed. The laws all living creatures know.
I love the freshness of the spring despite the fact the winds are keen
I am quite happy wandering to search for any sign of green.
The bitter winter slowly passed and soon the hillsides will be grassed
Though snow still lingers here and there. As bald spots undergo repair.
Underground new life is stirring as the sunshine returns with spring
to warm the winter frozen land. This artistry I understand
Natures consummate artistry: Infinite in variety
Each plant supplies a different hue and shadows add a touch of blue.
A contrast to the greenery which dominates the scenery
The purple heather showing through as spring continues to renew.
The beauty of the moors again to be enjoyed other men
Who love the moors as much as me, a privilege completely free.
Eventually spring slips away, the moors preparing for the day
When they will bask beneath the sun. A slow process which has begun.
Beneath a sky of cloudless blue I chose a spot where I can view
The kestrels circling on patrol and see the landscape as a whole
With my field glasses I can see the sunlight gleaming on the sea
Much further than my naked eye and for moment wish that I
Had wings so I could freely fly (indulging in a fantasy)
Towards my other love the sea, dream I know that cannot be.
The year moves on at its own pace as autumn waits to take her place
The twilight falls much earlier, this is my favourite time of year.
The pace of life is slowing down the greenery is turning brown
The heather fades to lavender, wise rodents store their provender;
The young birds long since flown the nest are gathering to start their quest.
Quite soon they’ll start their journeyings carried on well practiced wings
The colours of the high moors fade no longer purple, gold and jade
Assuming neutral brown and dun the change to winter has begun
The north wind blows and sprinkles snow.In winter time I do not go
up to the moors I’ve earned the right to stay inside where I can write.
I am too old to brave the cold. I leave that to the young and bold.
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