Mist rises up, like a wraith from a grave,
From the sodden valley floor,
As weak beams of early sunlight,
Dapple shadows on the moor.
Dripping scraps of fleece, of long gone sheep,
Forlornly flutter, on rusted barbs of wire.
Dark patches on the heather,
Pungent smell of recent fire.
Shadows chase, across the hills,
Like spectres passing by,
Reflections of cotton candy clouds,
Dancing madrigals, as they cross the sky.
The advancing sun, creeps along the valley,
Re-warming life, casting out the dark.
As a timorous fox, slides from it’s lair,
It’s territory to mark.
Water tumbles, tinkles, swirls,
Along the valley’s river bed.
Diamond flashes, jumping fish,
On unsuspecting flies they’re fed.
On the hillside, a distant farm, the sound of cattle,
Full morning udders, give their mournful low.
Soon wizened farmers, will be stirring
Wakened by, the cocks so strident crow.
The sun rises up, a disco ball,
Of red and golden light,
As morning breaks, across the moor, We have survived