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 up and half-notice

rowan berries reddening on the trees.

We sip the bilberry’s blood, consume the bloated

drone of pollen-laden honeybees.

This track can be a tramp but we are floating,

lofted by the nectar on the breeze.