Walking on Sleights Moor

Over breaking heather a sudden breeze
takes my hat.
Then peace – a touch of air on the cheek,
one small white cloud hangs silent,
just the tseep . . . tseep . . . of shy pipits

Grey stones, strewn like lost teeth –
who is the owner of this tomb?
Nothing comes; but here is a pool dug for thirsty grouse,
the sliced edge a profile of years,
an earth sandwich to gaze upon.

Dark peat above dun, ice-age clay.
Where is the filling? The rich,
forest humus that the old ones
tilled to feed their families.
It is gone.

The earth they heaped
over their fathers’ stone-lined cells
has also blown. No bones, just half-sunken
bleached rocks litter the moor.
Indecent nakedness.

On the breeze, faint voices,
perhaps the chants of celebrants,
the laughter, chuckles, sobs, shouts,
commands, giggles, the mewings
and the whisperings . . .

All the way down I wade
through waving grasses, purple and gold.
Ringleted creatures rise up from my stride
and dance like children in brown frocks.
Claret thistle heads nod.

Grasshoppers churr;
the whin pods crack.
Far below, on the floor of the dale,
an old tractor clanks and rattles,
turning hay in July heat.

Harry Nicholson
3 July 2011