Far from speechless within the Moor.
Tortured, Twisted, dressed in rags, the Ghost of our ancestors stand.
From holy seed, once borne upon and ancient wind.
A promise faintly whispered, far beyond the haunted dreams of Abraham's fated son.
This treasured truth does stand as like and yet within the moss covered stones,
when all else does seem as futile noise,
falling amongst the bitter dust of civilisation's angry grasp.
Sweet honeyed scent, soft and warm descends from the high Tor.
Flowing Blood and bone washes into the wood,
standing tall Oak, Ash and Thorn stretch to take it all.
An Arboreal sigh, welcome relief, a deeper breath and a remembered thought.
The Granite Giants shift themselves as memory stirs,
they rise and turn with the fond recall of lives never to be forgotten,
Ancestral voices raised in triumph .
Gently I walk, within the footsteps of the wise amongst the hidden paths.
I glimpse the shade of a white hare, I hear the song of the wish hounds pushing me further.
My soul grasps at the rock, reaches deep into the loam, I am anchored to this place, rooted.
Lost in the wilderness, I am home,
foundling far beyond your space and time, one with all that matters still.
It is I who would haunt this wood, I that would sing the song of fear.
It is I who would hunt the weary traveller and draw him to his doom.
For I am the eyes that follow you, the noise that makes your heart leap.
Foe, Fiend or friend, what would you have me be.
For I am at one with the wild wood
As for yourselves, who knows ?