Always at the ripped rock wall,
high above the reservoir, stop.
Here, it began.
Look down now. This is compelling,
this view ages me.

I cannot be here, but soon the trees,
strain against wind and sky.
Stumpy, hawthorn, rowan,
twisted druid’s crook.
Hooks me to the damp bed.

Let me walk again, east,
down to the stone hedge,
the edge of the moor.
Desolate, rut and mire, coarse,
nothing interrupts to make a view.

No stone, no tree.
Perspective  flattens,
the sky and moor meet, west.
Valley, bordered by pine,
lofty, bedded with needles, shelter.

Down to the stream where
tea was once made, shared,
the water gritty, tasting of peat.
Out of the valley, no hardship,
a slight uplift,  lark ascends.

Coombeshead, the tor low,
memory is staked here,
passion even.
The treasure in no surprise.
Once these were insignificant.

They held no allure,
Too small to be feared,
too remote to be useful.
Now they come to play, on
Cuckoo rock.

Potato cave, once,
but no, let that rest.
Turn away again, pain at leaving.
Sheepstor, Leather tor,
Burrator, north.

I was here once, young,
impressionable, excited,
in love with being at this time.
Here again, jaded cynicism slips away,
blessed, remembering.

Here I can believe again,
I need not fear time.
Pressed, imortal
The scene holds me still,
the water flows, the moor remains.

Follow