The Heart of the Moor

A silver brook through fern and blade
Like thread through cloth is gently laid.
It winds where moss and shadows sleep,
Through rocks worn dark and ledges deep.

Time carved this place in rain and stone,
Where water sings in undertone.
Its voice is low, a whispered song,
The moor’s own soul it moves along.

Each frond leans in, as if to hear
The secrets flowing crystal-clear —
Of skies that wept, of stormclouds torn,
Of wild winds howling, bleak and worn.

When sunlight breaks the clouded day,
It dances in a golden spray,
And glimmers on the weeping rock,
A hush between each ticking clock.

To find this place is to be still,
To slip beyond the world’s sharp will.
Here, breath and earth are softly stirred —
The moor remembers, without word.

The heather hums in purple haze,
A song of long-forgotten days.
The curlew calls across the air,
Its cry as old as time is rare.

A twisted tree stands lone and wide,
Its roots sunk deep, its arms flung wide.
It marks the years in bark and bone,
And speaks in silence, all its own.

The breeze moves slow with scent of rain.
Of bracken damp and peat-rich plain.
It carries tales from long ago —
Of shepherd’s paths through fields below.

So pause awhile and take it in,
This quiet world beneath the din.
Where sky meets soil and dreams run deep,
And even time must slow — and sleep.