Kiss the cloud that lights the day,
touch the face that sings this way.
Walk the path that leads the fair
touch the falling through the air
Rich the wood that scented kissed
the swirl ofpipe breeze lifted mist
Dark the folds of landscape drift
High in hills wild floating gift
Roars the ghost in lone hills warned
Shout the hunter in hunting dawn
Swift the winds that cross the moor
fill the legends, speak of these shores
We pour mist into lost fields cross the stars
We find painted idols, canvas marked like playing cards
We dream, a sign of leaving, taking hours
We sing, all sadness of final scores
Shall we wait to carry on?
Ah, I hear the pipe
Do you hear it too?
The Curlew bright
a shining bird in concert
with the song of the moors.
Oh but to hear the singing
just once, once more, my love.
To see the seventh wave, the gull
and the northern seal
watch til the deeps thunder
To feel the running, just this once
and the stag in antlered rutting roaring
To see the silvered strings
and gold leafed dresses
in the blessed harp of the shivered trees.
Gatheredwheat sing in the field
The stacks of sweet, oh so sweet yellow
The vixen's yip for precious young
and a headdress of grass that you will wear
life in a rayed red sunset
The best fish leaping
The swans necking the weed lake
The talon clutch in a flying shadow
the blue of the hare on the mountain snow
and the world that was before
© Copyright 2016 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.