The clouds suck in –
The wind, soaring its passage
venting her untamed
bleak of moorland self destruction.
How bends and nods the cotton grass
flimsy in their slight fluffed bobble hats.
Hunched reduced, against this their
barren back drop of existence.
The sun put to bed – long before her
face she aired –
Dreary this place of home
where the sound of faceless
moorland birds, split
to open, the deadening rush of winter’s
the fading heather beds
like purple pitted bruises
still with a view
to catch the seldom wanderers eye.
Home calls the final residing guests
as to their wings they beat in flight
far – far away.
Broken back of moons half light –
Of dog fox barks, and owls that
screech the tongue of fear in man.
So, we shall withdraw
waiting on spring – hopeful on the arrival
of old friends made.
Deep regrets in those extended sighs,
for the acceptance of many
that we know,
we will never greet again…