A purple ocean over rolling hills;
that broad expanse of England's heathered spine
often held us captive; Sunday morning
hikers, crooks at the ready.
The granite altar spread throughout the moor
it was our solace, our place of worship.
We'd gasp as tired waterfowl alit,
on mirrored planes of silver coloured ponds.
A thousand threads of white; the ripples rush
across the canvass in Picasso blue.
The Kestrels hovered against the head wind and
waited on the wing before their dive.
many pleasurable days spent
roaming tranquil Pennine paths
where i'm at so far
that broad expanse of England's heathered spine
often held us captive; Sunday morning
hikers, crooks at the ready.
The granite altar spread throughout the moor
it was our solace, our place of worship.
We'd gasp as tired waterfowl alit,
on mirrored planes of silver coloured ponds.
A thousand threads of white; the ripples rush
across the canvass in Picasso blue.
The Kestrels hovered against the head wind and
waited on the wing before their dive.
many pleasurable days spent
roaming tranquil Pennine paths
where i'm at so far