The mist hangs low across the moors
A gentle breeze to kiss the tors.
Ancient boulders lost in sleep
Guard lost secrets they will keep.
Up above the buzzards fly
Soaring, soft, dissect the sky.
Below swift rodents deftly dance
And measure future with their chance.
Ponies drop their heads to chew
Leaving thought, to me, and you.
Yellow gorse bursts on the scene
While Adders seek the sun, unseen.
The beauty that is held herein
Surpasses wrath and mortal sin.
This is God's own chosen land
It's not for us to understand.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
