High Mooreland

As though a quiet meditative stillness to prove,

Ere the mount rises in its height or the brook bubbles in its groove;

The cow, as it grazes peacefully, answers to nothing save its own whims,

Contented and full of the lush grass all about his shins.

By yonder meadow and beyond the fierce rocks, sings a lark -

Twittering sweet nothings to himself before he rises to embark.

Rising skywards, soaring across the frigid river running amidst the dale,

He glides forward through the misty fog cloud as though parting a veil.

Then, discovering himself at the ocean, he wheels and turns

Across the dark rocks and pale sand for which he yearns

To where the vast expanse of ocean and troubled sky meet

Each as blue as the other, majestic, and wholly complete.

Each dew clouded blade of grass, each grain of sand, and every water drop,

Tells a storied history of nature’s beauty – a great tale, like one that does not stop.