I sit and wait for tomorrow’s rain
plucking clouds for tears
waiting for their cleansing spirit
to come racing over the Edge,
the trees to break the horizon.
I love to see the crows
scatter the mist, like
fragments of lingering darkness.
I await the north wind
to sting my face
to tear the leaves
from the screaming trees.
Eyes ache to greet new mornings
bones stir for the open moor
spirits rise like the lark
above the Edge, to feel
the draft of buzzard wings -
then like a quivering butterfly
wings tinged with frost
patterns fading like spent dreams
I feel winter careering
like a flock of tundra geese
across the grey sea -
and I set myself for the time ahead.
