NaPM April 08 2016

[heslopian]

This is gorgeous, Bilbo. You said that your poetry was getting worse, you sly goose

The Pennines.


As waves of rolling heather swamp the peaty moor,
purple headed stems whip and whisper to the north.

Waterfowl alight and skim on windy waters,
as rippled mirrors hold a thousand golden suns.

A Kitty Hawk that wheels on wing before its dives;
A shrieking shrew succumbs, a squeak or two then death.

There's life and death to rival one of Shakespeare's plays
on this moorland stage of reeds and austere crags