Clear View

I can see it now even without looking that clear view above the steeply dropping rooftops. That sight is peppered across my childhood memories, the open moorland, in all weathers and in all seasons. Standing at the top of the road on the way to where ever, always a brief moment to glance at its beauty. Be it tinged with purple heather, or covered in snow, sometimes missing altogether in the mists of an autumn morn, ever constant but never quite the same. Beautiful, yet intangible too far to run, to young to drive. Even now I long to see that view again with real eyes, so much so that I suspect, given the car and some time I'd find myself not on the moor of my childhood desires, but instead atop the hill above the rooftops staring at the view.