Best Moor Poems
How I love the Wuthering heights rugged landscape
Of the wild savage moor
As I stand upon a rocky outcrops
High on a windswept Tor.
Under the blue sky canopy before me
Lies sweeping lush green and tawny vales and rolling hills
Land so wild and unforgiving
As the cold wind begins to bite and chill
Carpets of lilac heather providing shelter
For grouse rabbit and mouse
Somewhere in the distance
I catch the site of an old dilapidated stone farm house
Battered and in decay by the harsh temperamental weather
Every day.
Silver ribboned streams gushing and rushing ever flowing
Sparkling in the sun as lazy trout swim and pout
Trying to kiss the sky.
Little white woolly dots majestically graze on idle days
As the ravens take pieces of wool for nesting away
Suddenly the sky turns black and the icy rain begins to pound
And somewhere in the far distance I hear a deep rumbling sound
Cracks of light flash in the sky and the thunder now close by
Gives out a mighty roar
I feel the power shake the ground where I stand
And it shakes me to the core
A mixture of fear and acceleration sweeps over me
As I watch far from safety in awe.
Suddenly as it started the thunder stops and the sky begins to clear
A rainbow crescent appears and the lark twitters once moor
As the started wild ponies and heads of deer reappear
The overpowering smell of damp earth
I'm soaking wet my cheeks red and aglow
I'm lost in the wild untameable timeless beauty
That I have come to love and know
In my isolation I find peace of mind so serine
I am not just a visitor
But at one with nature and part of the scene.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015. June.
Thirteen ladies dancing
By Throckrington Moor’
Each movement stately
Each movement sure.
Stark against the sky
Each single girl,
Feet firmly planted,
Arms all a whirl,
Moves to the wind
In a slow rhythmic way,
Dancing consistently
Whether night or day.
Really only dancing ladies
In my minds inner eye,
Really just wind turbines
Outlined against the sky.
Spare and sparse in their design
To me things of simple beauty
Unceasingly performing
Their appointed duty.
Just by Throckrington Moor
Each one proves it’s worth
Providing clean power to
Help save our wounded Earth.
Each time I pass that moor
Those girls are standing there
Stark in their beauty
In that clear moors air
Gazing out upon dusky barren moor,
Where gray grass grasps the air
Finding no purchase but sad allure
Straight stalks elapse their endless despair.
Teased by tales of golden reach
Tricked by gales, whose song they preach.
Redtail’s velvet wings breach the sky,
Maroon lips who kiss the grass
Stirring the song, its desperate sigh
Catching the words, her beak of crystal glass
Behind her, midnight shadow draws
Fells her beauty with unseen charcoal paws
Scarlet tears dampen the earth below
Nurture the roots held by dusty truth
Finally, the wind, gray grass’ will bestow
The hawk once, now the fountain of youth.
Litany of silence reigns in dusky glare,
Each blade bowed in mournful prayer.
(Told to me by a patient, when
working as a
builder’s labourer at Menston’s asylum 1963)
This little middle aged lady,
watched and followed me
around for two days,
when I was working on a
renovation job, in Menston
asylum 1963.She told me this
tale over and over again about
her and someone’s (no name)
initials being cut into rock
on Ilkley moor. I’d almost
forgot about her, till I saw on
television recently a documentary/
drama based on the asylum at Menston.
Some of the scenes from the show
were uncanny in being almost
identical with her story told to me
Thirty-two years ago.
I was told that eventually
she would soon forget all things
relating to her past. What impressed
me, was how hard she was trying to
hang on; of course it was her only
salvation.
“I saw a rat
this morning, eating
on a brain.
A surely little thing
all furry and grey.
I saw a bright light
afterwards”/
“I tried to
grasp it but it was so
elusive;
like their warm
and tender love it only
stays a little while,
before the darkness begins
to shut out all the
things I cherish.
I sing a song”/
“It helps to pass
the waiting.
I clean the
window sill try the
front door, it’s always
locked, somehow I know
my past is through there”.
"Now I
cannot except the concept
of light then dark, the
adjustment is burning me
up.
Just as long as the
memory of my loved ones/
from the
light days of my life is
kept within me/
memories
of sublime peace and
simple innocents,
like
the standing stone on
“Rombalds Moor” Our
initials forever beguiling."
Sorry! I have to go
it’s the rat/
he’s eating his
lunch again!
© Harry J Horsman 1995
A misty Scottish gale blows fierce
From the grey that clouds the hills
I step onto her western way
Desolate, damp and chilled
Her grasses grow brown and lavender
Stretching as far as I can see
While Hill tops and the horizon
Lead me deep into a peaty sea
From the banks of black Loch Tula
At the base of rocky Bens,
I walk this winding pathway
Bearing forward to Ba bridge
I stop to survey the ruins
That were once, hardier than I
And climb up to a mountain's pass
with Glencoe in my sights
The Buachaille and Beinn a' Chrulaiste
Towers high out from the fog
Herding me towards the gateway
Of the Glen and from the bog
And yet that cold wind continues
Against me all the while
And the rain blows much harder
Urging me to turn away
But the Highland call has taken me
From far enough away
That I see the moor's true beauty
Even on this rainy day.
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
The chilled musty air
tormented the aging stone,
the wailing wind sang.
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Out there are many ancient sites
And fear grows deep at the end of daylights
One hears loud scary cries
Among the primeval moor and buckeyes
To the beast identity this might be a clue
September was a month of beginning of world war two
It is also true
That September is a month associated with moor and this too is nothing new
Maybe it is a spirit of soldier who died
And to hunt those ancient sites would decide
But more likely it is as old or older than stones that on this site reside
And among those very stones it would hide
Imagine if you will
At twilight you walk up at moor covered hill
But something is stalking you not for food but for a thrill
Something that has instinct to kill and gives of a cry that bone can chill
The moor smells so sweet
But Imagine at distance of just few feet from where you sit
The eyes of giant cat like stars are lit
The eyes and teeth that monster befit
You feel lump in the throat as if you just swallowed your own soul
Around you moor is primordial beautiful and tall
This moor seems to have its own soul
And you wonder if it witnessed as the beast devoured its victims whole
The beasts’ eyes are bloodshot
Ready for onslaught
The beast is not just large cat it is spiritual juggernaut
And you are staring into fierce countenance of this juggernaut
Upon The Moor
I dreamed I'd written a moonlit sonnet
As I danced across the misty moor.
Lavender heather grew dense upon it,
Serving as a carpet on a bare floor.
Then a lark on wing, passed over my head.
That's when I began to fervently pray,
"God, if I am still asleep in my bed,
Please do not allow me to wake this day.
My life is burdened with sorrow and pain.
Only by dreams am I ever set free.
I don't mind having to sleep in the rain,
For I know You always watch over me."
I woke bathed in dew, lying on heather.
On my breast there rested a lark's feather.
Five Thousand Men! Blood flowing in the creek,
The deadly sweep and ‘whisst!’ of footman’s pike,
The cavalry broke through where lines were weak!
The smell of grass and loam, a caltrop’s* spike
That pushed right through my boot, and left me lame…
I’m on my own, now, I cannot keep up!
I’ve not a shilling for the boys to claim,
Should I on Heav’n’s bright porch today end up!
There, buy an ale, for friends, who’ll stop, and smile,
For all my friends are dead! (And, soon, I’ll be!)
Next rush of Horse, I’ll fight atop a stile** –
My count of Roundheads*** will be forty-three!
OH, GOD!!! The bowmen now have found their mark!
It’s thus! That all good men go down to dark…
* caltrop – a four-pointed spike of iron, laid before battles, to lame horses and men
** stile – an arrangement of steps that allows people, but not animals, to climb over a fence
*** Roundheads - a nickname for the Parliamentarian Rebels
BLUBBERHOUSES MOOR
I have often pondered on words that have been written of your
verdant moorside chase, where so many faces you portray to suit
each season, the bluest haze of summer, autumn’s golden demise,
winter’s alpine crest and spring for her blossom to bare.
a moorland bereft
no cosmetic piety
nature weaves her own
While malignant storm clouds threaten the scurrying wild life,
an inclement veil cloaks the highest reaches, all that bore a
resemblance now shapeless in the mist, gone the track to walk
upon, only when the wildest of winds sway the sturdiest of
trees, does the sun peep through the canopy.
seasonal blending
shackles break for to renew
nature cuts the chord
The mighty noonday sun lifts the chill of the beastly breeze, as I
listen to the voice of sullen water blazing a trail on its journey to
the river, a far cry from the babbling spring and the wide-open span
of the ocean. Yet it is not nostalgia I yearn for, I have many times
witness your fickle temperament, for I was born and fused within
your many mordant moods, here in this mossy valley for I am a
part of that, your blood which runs through me.
frozen winter sleeve
that blankets the living earth
springs jubilation
© Harry J Horsman 2018
Wind Swept Beauty.
.
Upon hilly brackish tor
Of a wild inhospitable
Windswept ambling moor
Woolly sheep chew cud and bleat
In the shadow of the over looking
Rugged towering sister mountains
.
A sprawling sweeping land
Of tawny browns and greens
And carpets of purple heather
Laid by God’s hand in between
.
Linier lecithin blotched
Higgledy piggledy drystone walls
Boundary lines
Thickets of bracken
Woody copper copse
With steeple wind battered tree tops
.
Silver ribboned stream and brooks
Snaking through the rugged land
Gushing rushing over
Stone pebble and boulder
Sparkling cold clear and clean
Lazy pouting gasping trout
Suddenly turn and try to kiss the sky
As a flock of flapping crows
With raucous calls pass by
.
A harsh unforgiving land
Weather beaten unrefined
Rugged beauty upon sodden earth
On which it defiantly stands
Under temperamental moody
Ominous varied darkened sky’s
Capturing many a heart
And pleasing the eye.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
The snow fell in Dewsbury Moor overnight,
They woke up at lunch to a horrible sight,
The snow had flowed through the broken gates,
And roads were blocked all across the estates,
The giros had still not arrived after ten,
So wailing was general within the crack den.
The bin bags piled up to the lower window,
Obscured by the grime-defying, beautyfying snow.
The wind whistled through the boarded up seams,
Of windows and roused men from opiate dreams,
While weary-eyed women with mascara'd tears,
Tend to their children, three in four years.
But the memories stay as the snow melts away,
How beautiful Dewsbury Moor looked today!
Collecting vistas
from the wild untameable
misty moor
Rugged and timeless
for the eyes to adore
Spiralling hills and sweeping green vales
Plagued by harsh wind rain and hail
Bubbling brook
and silver ribboned streams flow
Where the purple carpets of heather grow.
Moss covered old drystone walls
baron trees from which the crow
shouts out it's raucous calls
A patchwork quilt of varying greens
and tawny browns
Where sheep majestically graze
with their woolly down.
A rustic stone cottage
long abandoned and run down
graces a hill
Where the wind blows through
the windows with a haunting howl
and biting chill.
A place where many an artist and poet
have been drawn to and inspired
Their hearts at one with nature and beauty
their imagination fired.
A place through the ages
Countless lovers have dreamed and swooned
under the velvet diamonded filled skies
and magical glowing moon
Love stories now left untold lost in time
the pledges of soft love and romance
ans sweet love divine.
An idle timeless wonder land
crafted by Gods loving artful hand.
Peter Dome.copyright.2013. Dec.
No harmful or irksome thoughts
stir this mind to absolute madness,
and away from annoying, frequent sounds:
only peacefulness soothes irritated senses;
I may fall asleep and dream
in a state of false reality,
letting the fanciest fantasy
enter the bloodstream!
The crimson sunset arising over the wind-swept moor
alleviates the mood of daily woes such as this murmur;
the torrid day, unlikely a dry desert, gives into a cool breeze:
nothing is heard above and under but the shrilling of a geese!
All the joyous smiles flashed by others were missed by me,
and the craving was stuck into my throat unable to spit it out
and feel the relief I needed to carry me through a painless night;
firebugs aren't pretty butterflies, they glow and suddenly flee!