The Moor

Today our amble took us to the tops
Where yellow gorse like honey spikes the air
Below, the grumbling tractors tend their crops
Up here the land is quiet, wide and bare
And no one walks this pitted granite street
Except we two beneath a hazy sky
It almost seems that ours are the first feet
And, looking outwards, ours are the first eyes
The turf, now coarse and springy, bears no sound
Until a calling kestrel silence splinters
A sudden breeze comes spinning round and round
An echo of the killing wind of winter 

Jane Jago

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