When the rain returned to Scout Moor

When the rain returned to Scout Moor,
the air stood still — as if the land itself
was drawing a breath to fill,
the hollows left by summer’s hand,
cracked dark seams of the thirsting land.

The grasses bowed, their whispers dry,
beneath a dull and swollen sky.
For months the sun had scorched the peat,
and left the stones too hot to seat.

Below the reservoir, very low —
a shallow scar, a sullen glow.
Its mirror gone, its heart laid bare,
its edges lined with ancient air.

Cowpe Lowe watched, in quiet keep,
while heat still shimmered, half-asleep.
And Cragg Quarry’s walls of stone and sand
held ghostly warmth within their hand.

Looking north, Pendle’s crest
was cloaked in storms, its outline dressed
in folds of stone and silver rain,
like breath returning after pain.

The scent came first, before the pour —
that living hush the moors implore.
Of moss and bracken, soaked and sweet,
of peat’s dark bloom beneath my feet.

A sound — a sigh — the sky’s slow moan,
The wind turned cool; the light had flown.
A drop. Then two. Then, all at once —
a thousand beats on weathered stones.

The valley darkened, soft, and immense,
each ridge alive with bright suspense.
Rivulets formed in cracks and seams,
reviving half-remembered streams.

The reservoir took a breath again,
It’s hollow ringing under rain.
And every blade, and every stalk,
bowed low beneath the thunder’s talk.

The scent grew thick with earth and time,
with an iron tang and upward climb.
The air itself was ripe, reborn —
the moor’s deep soul unbound, and untorn.

Pendle Hill faded into the haze,
a shadow wrapped in a silver maze.
The moor was all reflection and sound,
And I stood still on breathing ground.

No sun up high — just pulse and peace,
the moment’s weight, and slow release.
The moor exhaled, so did I,
beneath that vast, unforgiving sky.

And when it passed — the hush remained,
A promise whispered through the rain.
For something old had stirred once more,
when the rain returned to Scout Moor.