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 willed:
Not just the light, but all the lore — the ancient heart of the broken moor.