Mike Tonkin - Bodmin Moor

The moor is at it’s best
In autumn, with the air
Full of moisture, the place
Closed in
And melancholy.
One feels a sadness
That summer is over, .
But the season is rich
With the vivid colours
Of dying vegetation,
Colours that give you
Hope, for the future
Breathe them.
Bushy lichins and
Ferns grow
In secret places,
The Marsh Fritillary
Flies,
Rivers are clean
And Dippers live
Dangerously
Looking for food
In the fast flowing
Streams,
And Skylarks sing.
Flat rocks piled
One on the other
Precariously
And rocking stones
In balance with the
Universe,
Granite that impervious
Stone
Used for buildings
Tombs and crosses
And mans memorials
To himself.
He has walked
The moors
For thousands of years,
Tin and copper
And white china clay
Have been dug,
Woolly Mammoths
And reindeer have
Roamed the land.
But the people
Are gone now,
Cattle, sheep and ponies
Remain, and the moors
Are themselves
Healing the scars
Left by man.
Brown Willy,
You sit up on
The tops for hours
Just watching
The reflection of the
Earth in the sky, .
When evening draws
In, and darkness wraps itself
Around you, the cry
Of a curlew sounds like
The loneliest, the most
Beautiful utterence on
Earth.

Mike Tonkin

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bodmin-moor/