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The Red Moor
I love the wide skies of the red moor
now heather filled,
a heaven of broken ditches,
the tumbling ground of newts,
of fallen walls,
of dry-stone.
gave shelter to many jackdaws
and the little owl.
Now mouldy mounds,
secretive,
faint memories in broken stone,
and one lone damson,
twisted,
tormented,
by the ceaseless winds.
for a walk, a picnic,
and often,
in every year.
I simply revelled under wide skies,
with ptarmigan and grouse,
lulled by soaring skylarks,
the goshawk and the curlew.
but then I never knew.
bright farmsteads,
fought,
with iron will,
from moorlands
and the wind.
All neatly walled
and whitewashed,
polished, proud in Sunday best
the pencilled names upon the back
leave no doubt
my mother’s kin
in
“High Goyt”
and
“Over Saltersford”
some years ago
carved
with one word:
twenty times,
and neatly done,
in copperplate,
on parchment,
the ancient parish register,
plus one more line:
much recovered and seven in years is offered up for adoption,
no kin being forthcoming.”
suddenly sullen,
so dour and grey,
no fun at all on the high red moor,
so lost in thought,
but I now know why,
and the moorland sky,
has a handhold on my soul.
