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Cloaking misty hills and many a deep valley floor: 
The empty Moor presents an outlook, stoical and dour.
Seemingly barren, this mute guardian of history,
Emits an air of arcane intrigue and darkest mystery.

Stunted Jack Pines, seen clustered on a distant knoll,
Stolidly defy Nature, though she exacts her toll.
They, as living record of ravages exacted by time,
Struggle to survive the harassment of its harsh clime.

Of other trees that one seeks, there are but few to see;
Except for a solitary Oak, a rugged, ponderous tree,
With deeply gnarled bark and stout branches entwined,
That survives, whilst all others, the Moor has declined!

When storm clouds threaten, and the midday dims,
This land, subject to Nature’s unpredictable whims,
Sends all Moor denizens scurrying, helter skelter
To seek the comfort and safety of familiar shelter.

When evening winds, croon their eerie symphony,
And babbling rills join in, to send haunting melody
Echoing across the ling, it provokes fresh fears,
That warn the Moor is no place to be, when night nears.

When the Moor is lit by a full moon, still there’s deceit,
For deep hazardous shadows, often trick unwary feet,
As bog and tussock, seemingly reach out to ensnare,
The ill fated interloper who chances to stumble there!

For Nature strives to erase all signs of human hand,
Would return the Moor to what befits this native land.
Her awesome control, allows for no compromise,
As those who would challenge her ways, soon realise! 

But I enjoy the freedom such visits offer me;
For tis therein, I find peace and serenity.
So when solitude is an urgent need, and my goal,
The Moor brings composure to my tormented Soul.

Rhymer August 20th, 2016

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