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Ageless moor
You beckon me
To discover the secrets
Of your ancient stones.
Laid in times immemorial,
Clues from a long forgotten
Enigma.The call of the Curlew in spring,
Wavering and lilting on high,
To disappear into long folds of
Heather,
A ghostly spirit from the sky.Cradled in your majestic hills
A small white house;
With sparkling waters
Cold, pure and clear.
The Mecca of pilgrims
Seeking solitude, peace and rest.A playground now for young and old,
In search of something they may never find.
The Grouse cries out, "gobak, gobak".
It is well to heed the sentinels warning,
For few have mastered your icy hold.As the cold, damp mists settle
over your craggy head,.
‘Neath which Roman Legions
And Rupert trod
You keep your mysteries,
You ageless, quiet moor.Will Man ever solve
The puzzle of your
Ancient stones.
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