Snake of cars, stopping, waiting, thinking –
snake of cars crawling away, laden, crying…
The tors look like crowns in monochrome –
and people set like jewels.
Moving through ferns and old stones
we find a quiet place.
Morning moths rise fluttering from my feet
like single white confetti floating
to rest on green.
Tiny yellow star-flowers with
wetness clinging to Emmaus boots make
Heaven in a wild flower.
Ponies nudging – flicking – whinnying –
staying close together.
Wind furrows ferns like neck hairs under pony tails
and a flat stone waits.
Coolness growing – a patch of warmth to lean on.
Bleating and barking – single sounds on the wind.
People-watching people on the third watch
like small children wanting to get to the top – then
looking all around, staying perfectly alert to everything
– not missing a thing. Midnight at Christmas.
Darkness descending frame by frame over
an apprehension
of what will be a new day.
Twice in six hours.
Quiet joy to be content
to look ahead
and to deny the urge to rove.
I watch the bewildered foal take milk,
and curl around my knees to
feel the moorland blur into night.
Eileen Walke
