Memory of the Moor

Reading, I close my eyes: a cool
breeze touches my face; the loamy
sharpness of peat wafts around me,
nestles on the back of my tongue.

Stiff brambles, gray in cloud-shadow,
appear lacy, airy next to outcropped
rocks shaped by an impatient hand
when it tore at white chalk clay, leaving
residue like flour after bread baking.

In this shallow depression, cold wind
does not reach me, nor ruffle the pages
of my Bronte or bring the cuckoo's song
from nearby copse. But the coconut
scent of gorse and the honeyed purple
of early heather surround me once more.

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