Seasons upon the moor

I. Winter’s Stirring Silence

The moor now lies still, in quiet repose,
Beneath a blanket of powdery snows.
The trees are bare, stripped of their leaves,
And the land feels hollow, with nothing to grieve.

But silence is broken by a raucous sound—
Laughter-like calls that echo around.
The mocking cries of grouse fill the air,
Resounding through silence, without a care.

The icy wind joins in with a whistle,
Its chilly breath sharp as a missile.
Across the moor, it roams and roars,
As if seeking something it once adored.

The moor, now alive, with sound all around—
Whispers and cackles through air that is bound.
Breaking the stillness of a world so hushed,
Bringing a thrill as silence is crushed.

Surrounded by fog, my senses ignite,
The world becomes blurred in the mist’s ghostly light.
Unusual rocks loom in the haze,
Whispers in wind make my mind start to craze.

Shadowy figures dance in the foggy air;
My heart quickens, gripped by fear’s stare.
But in this eerie, enchanted mist,
My mind runs free—by wonder kissed.

II. Spring’s Awakening

The air is scented with bracken and bloom—
In spring, on the moorland, all nature finds room.
Where mystery weaves its gentle spell,
A vibrant canvas where colours dwell.

Daisies and buttercups, a golden throng,
Sway with grace, where they belong.
Emerald blades in a verdant sea,
Kissed by dew, in morning’s glee.

Silver threads through pastures run,
A woven tapestry beneath the sun.
The symphony is silent, yet deeply known—
A lark’s sweet song on the breeze is blown.

Ascending to azure, the melody clear,
Whispers of hope chase away fear.
The stream hums a playful rhyme—
A gentle escape from the clutch of time.

It sings of winters, harsh and old,
A bittersweet tale softly told.
Mystical murmurs in sunlit air—
A secret language beyond compare.

Nature’s embrace, a sacred space,
Where wonder blooms with ethereal grace.
As I wander where colours ignite,
I find enchantment in morning’s light.

In beauty, a truth is defined—
The soul’s repose for the wandering mind.

III. Summer’s Lush Song

Rolling hills embrace the sky;
God rays dance as they ripple high.
Golden fingers pierce the mist,
Kissing the earth with a gentle twist.

They light the shadows where secrets dwell,
In whispered stories only nature can tell.
The ferns, like dancers, sway and bend,
In the soft caress of summer’s blend.

Their vibrant greens, a lush embrace—
A tapestry spun with timeless grace.
As storm clouds gather, rain starts to fall,
A symphony rises—a soft, soothing call.

Each drop a note in a melody sweet,
Kissing the ground in rhythmic beat.
Then, as the tempest begins to wane,
A rainbow arches across the lane.

Colours unfurl in radiant grace—
A bridge of hope in the sky’s wide space.
From storm to splendour, the journey is clear—
Nature’s own canvas of joy and fear.

As I wander through hills and light,
Where whispers of magic linger in sight,
In every heartbeat, every sigh,
The world dances gently beneath the sky.

IV. Autumn’s Farewell

The wind, a whisper, soft and low,
Sighs through grasses in gentle flow.
As sunlight fades in a misty hue,
Autumn deepens in skies of blue.

Old stone walls, with weathered grace,
Stand sentry in time and space.
A silent watch, a steadfast gaze,
Upon the scene of autumn’s haze.

Bracken crisps beneath the tread—
A soft rustle where shadows spread.
Daylight flees, a golden light,
As evening’s cloak descends from height.

A lone crow calls—a mournful sound—
A note of sorrow, deep and profound.
As nature’s lullaby softly plays,
It soothes the edge of fading days.

The air is crisp, the chill bites deep,
Earth-scented stillness begins to creep.
Fallen leaves in fragrance sigh
Beneath a pale and wistful sky.

The moorland dreams in hues of gold—
A tapestry of stories told.
Where summer’s flame has slipped away,
Amber, russet hues now stay.

So breathe the chill, the quiet air,
And feel the grace beyond compare
Of autumn’s touch—a gentle hand—
Upon this raw and rugged land.

The moorland waits in peace serene,
A timeless beauty, ever keen.
One final splendour, proud and bold,
Before winter’s grip once more takes hold.

V. A Solitary Night

As day turns gently into night,
The moor breathes stillness, soft and light.
The silence returns in a calm embrace—
No footprints, no noise, no trace.

Only the wind, in a distant strife,
Howls its song through the still of life.
But I am undaunted— for I chose to be here,
amidst nature’s silence, without any fear.

My tent, my shelter, humble and small,
A quiet place amidst it all.
As stars twinkle in velvet sky,
I lie back, breathe deep, and sigh.

For in this moment, wild and free,
There’s nothing but nature—
And me, just me.

VI. The Dawn Marches On

With dawn comes a new day to behold—
The moor once more in a blanket of cold.
Snow lays heavy, crisp and white,
Reflecting the blush of morning light.

But I am ready for what it may bring,
As I pack up my tent and shoulder my things.
And leave behind, in hush and gleam,
A place that lingers like a dream.

A lone walker on the moor in heavy snow — Winter on Scout moor