The Heavy Chains of Moorland Mist

the chill of autumn initiates spiral breath precariously dancing buoyant upon frigid air chained to contours, dwell penetrating the very heart of the purple moorland chase, a symbol of being, as it is within a cycle nature’s promise one of perpetuity. yet alas ‘tis with a wondrous although woeful eye emancipation of candour only I seek, till to hear the call of the lonesome curlew’s cry and autumn once again with acrid voice does speak tells me I’m locked within the haze of “Poor man’s Peak”. © Harry J Horsman 2015