It was the moor that opened us
To freedoms of the horizontal plane,
So hard, so soft, a world of
Pluvious air, wrapped every nuance
In pale folds of brume.
The moor-grass changed each season:
Young, verdant, later bleached of life,
We saw beyond all reason,
Leaning locked against the
Sun-gleamed quartz a white sheet
For our backs.
Lulled by a rare ease like the buzzard’s soar,
We lived a rainbow on that moor.
Our footsteps fell on stony tracks
Where what might be was stretched out
Vastly, over tracts of gorse and broom,
Hemmed only by the distance of the view.
You talked and talked, the words like litter
Scattered on a breeze that rippled
Brownly over bracken seas.
Moor-covered hills with mountains
In their DNA, hold on to every memory:
A little piece of you, a part of me,
Still strewn like jewels across the heather
A lasting spawn
Of days we spent inside that weather.
It nailed our colours from the very start,
Your green eyes and my grey heart.