Up here on the edge
Where the clouds
Release their seeds and spore
The wind whispers freedom,
Wrapping itself about me like a greatcoat.
I hear the echoes
The myth of silence
The stone groaning to be alive.
Music issues from the bejeweled earth
Larks and pipits stir the dawn
Vibrating the unfathomable sanctity
Of the place; hymns resounding
In the sacredness of the landscape,
Pouring down from the moor
Like gurgling clear spring water.
Hollow hills release shadows,
Witch-trees swaying, garlanded with berries
Reflected light from a hawk’s eye
Painted with the pinks and reds
Of a violent birth-rite.
The curlew dances on the sun’s hand
Lapwings with stars in their wings dream
A feather soft breeze that whispers freedom.
