Low cloud, as the horizon shrinks.
Somewhere off, the silent stall of wind
breaks through. Consummates,
returns us to this moment.
Here the weather rains,
funereal grey mourning.

No respite from the cold, the
air hangs heavy, damp and chill.
Light breaks through. Far off,
the shards of cold sun searchlight
the bronze bracken-shadowed land.
Slips away, lost, withheld succour.

Watch, the wart-shaped hill,
sought across the valley,
slowly soften as it dissolves.
Lost to mist and soft rains,
heading our way.

Horses startled out of lethargy
circle the tors, looking for a leeside.
Instinct driven, heads bowed
damp coat, pain.
Millennia of  survival,
stoic, bored with this life.
But knowing nothing else.

Join them, walk under an overhang,
where you once played the summer’s role.
Closer in now, snug against the running
moss wet wall. Accept its cold comforts,
rather that than wind’s hard edge.

Shared warmth goes so much further.
There is no time here, so you wait.
Down-time itself, the memory of this,
and other places on sheltering days.
We’re lost here, caught in stasis.

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