The Broken Moor

I stood where silence wears a crown,
Where ghosted hills in velvet drown,
And in the hush of rain’s retreat,
The world bent shining at my feet.

A wound of colour split the skies —
A living fire before my eyes.
A bow of flame, a whispered spell,
That only fleeting hearts could tell.

The ruined walls, the breathless stone,
The hollow barn — all stood alone.
Yet bathed in gold, they dared to dream,
Lit by the remnants of a seam.

The grasses flared like molten gold,
The hills their emerald breath unrolled,
And even the old stones, worn thin,
Seemed to be set alight within.

The ruined barn — a keeper, grim,
Its frameless window, rough and dim —
Peered out upon the gilded rain,
And dared, perhaps, to dream again.

No hand could build, no brush could paint
The aching glory — fierce and faint —
That bled from sky to sodden ground,
That stitched the moor without a sound.

I did not move. I scarcely breathed.
The shutter whispered. Light was seized.
In that flash, in that brief spell,
The wild and broken sang — and fell.

The rainbow paled, the shadows grew,
The storm returned, the grasses blew,
Yet somewhere deep within the stone,
The colour’s secret still is sown.

And I — a witness, small and still —
Had captured what the heavens will:
Not just the light, but all the lore —
The ancient heart of the broken moor.

Through this rough window, once a door,
I watch, I wait — I ask no more.