Over the Moorlands

Sullen would be onset of grey, indivisible-dawning; Soon, lifting mist dissipating beneath the brae. Comes then a gentle heat arising with the morning... Thus the remaking of another new, glorious day. Sun-kissed slopes now aglow with purple blaze, Vast moorlands slowly stirring from quiet slumber; Clamorous whaups, hanging above the veiling haze, Burbling down to disappear into the tangled tundra. Together, paired oystercatchers pipe in rapid flight; Skipping wheatears explore dry-stone walls. There, old Barjarg, aglow in Junes vibrant light, And I awakening to the hidden otters whistling calls. Oh! to stroll once more upon the Cree's hallowed banks Inside the sanctuary of her jealously guarded hills. When tramping through the myriad of dew-drenched ranks That had across the sheep-strewn meadow spilled. If I but could joyfully follow the meandering course, Again, of those rocky, gurgling, opaque, amber waters. Thoughts, such as these, that surrender to a remorse... Nought but wistful memories that provoke to taunt us.