Crossing the Moor
A narrow, one track Roman road,
Stretches across the sky wide moor,
Invasive grass intrudes the sides,
A route from somewhere to nowhere.
Late last summer, purple heather
Spiced and scented the evening air.
Now, this brown land lies sombre, dark,
Beneath the black, rain heavy clouds.
There is always wind. In summer
Breezes, now winter gusting blasts
That shake the land and scour the skies,
Tossing the ragged rooks that flap
Their awkward flight against the storm.
Sheep shelter near a dry stone wall,
Half tumbled into rough decay.
We hurry through the fading light.
Behind the land slips into night