When the downpour ends, 
In the barren wilderness-like moors, 
The silence swells, fills the void, 
A hushed breath over drenched earth.


Pick up the internal slack, 
Bring about an emotional tension, 
Face the day, the prospects of oncoming ones.  
Emerge, soaked but whole.


Tears, the only external evidence, 
Of having lived a life.  
They fall, carving ...

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a scarecrow screams

wood pigeons rise

they can't believe their beady eyes

across the fields

he stiffly strides

years of east winds in his sides

its love he lacks

he's getting old

he wants to come in from the cold

there was a cry

one of his own,

from miles away over walls of stone

what will she think?

is he her type?

imagines her framed ...

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Where the fragrant heather moorland borders

wildwood, by the crags above the river,

the harebells and last fading heads of clover

nod themselves to sleep in drowsy August.

The ling is now full-on and tightly ordered

spikes of tiny flowers blanket over

the landscape like an Emperor’s purple toga

swathed across the heights, but thrice more gorgeous.

The fated grouse may look ...

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THE DARK TOWER

On the barren northern moors

lies a dark lonely tower.

No one ever goes there,

not a bird sings or a rabbit jumps.

This is the place of loneliness

and of despair and foreboding.

The sky is a leaden grey and

the wind howls around the tower.

Long lost souls cry for release.

Some may be your friends of long ago

or some lo...

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