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Late summer
The great days
The owls have left their holes
And are wide-eyed
At the beauty of the morning
The last of the Swallows
Fly low on the meadow
The heathery hills
Are tinged with gold
White grasses glimmering
I live for these days of the
wilds of the moors
and the lure
of the purple mountains.

Perfect
Still and warm
The essence of summer
New mown hay
Sweetens the air
Ragged thistles
reveal their downy truth
There's a half moon high
Over the black lake shining
Waning, silver and blue
Geese and grouse
Make gruff music
Over the purple moss
Where a noisy cloud
of pipits and finches
Twinkle like little stars
There's a shimmer on the moor
Heat is rising
A late summer haze
Blurring my horizon

Glorious morning
Golden
Whisps of high cirrus
Sparkling
A Small Copper butterfly
Flutters at the summit
On top of a prickly thistle
Men with guns
Shout and whistle
Out on the purple moor
So the sparrowhawk
Stays low
Out of the line of sight
Dark in his dusky blue
His threatening flight
Beautifully fluid
Scattering pipits
over the wall.

There's a nuthatch singing
By the bridge
Tapping out his silver notes
With his silver hammer
Silhouette against the blue
The cobbler makes a silver shoe
A darkling Raven flying high
Meets a Kestrel, eye to eye
They greet each other and
Say goodbye.
A shepherd on the lonely track
Asks me kindly to turn back
To make way for his wooly flock
I go another way today
And notice how the world looks wide
Approaching from another side

There is nothing to see.
Dense fog
Straightened walls
Restrict me
Seem to make
my world smaller.
I can hear the geese
On faraway waters
Calling into the mist
Goldfinches
High and tinkling
The soft husharush
Of the south wind rustling
Tall dry grass
By the cobwebby gate
The crows are loving
the thrill of temporary blindness
Hurtling over the infinite edge
Howling with joy
And I love
The illusion of haste
As I race down the hill.

It is as if
The envious sun
Had witnessed
last night's moon
And wondered how it would be
If she was dressed silver too
And veiled in silver silken mist
I'm in the liminal space between
The darkness and the light
Shimmering cobwebs
Beaded with glitter
Tremble like me
in the stillness.
Soft edges
in the midst of confusion.
Pools of possibility are
Lit by white rainbows
Gateways to another place
Hidden from the sun

The sun on the edge of things
Masked, behind a veil
Sometimes bright
Warm,
A golden pool,
Sometimes cool
like milk in a pail.
He has gone.
All summer long
He has woven his way
In wefts and warps
Along the road
Over the meadows
Between the walls
And now he's gone
Taking my summer dreams
Streaming like soft feathers
Behind him.

A golden morning
Live wires buzzing
With the conversations
Of gathering Swallows
Goldfinches, in tinkling clans
Undulate over thistle-fields
Sprinkling glitter
Across drifting clouds
of silver sugars.
There's a treecreeper.
Her careful spirals
Encircling
the ravaged Ash
Casting a spell
On the whole of her world

The Buzzard
And the Peregrine
Will argue
About who
is the king of the sky
Circling over
The rocks and the rowan
Jousting
The Ravens of the High Street
Are somersaulting
over the rainbow
And hungry swallows are
Busy on the misty edges
My legs are heavy
And my heart is full
Wandering in the wide world

@Esther Beautiful. That looks like a gateway into an enchanted land 😊

So lovely
In the soft morning
The purple heather
Lighting the grey
A swallow's hello
Flying low
on the road
And pipits flitter
Between sleepy horses
Resting in the silver mist.
Unquiet geese
Their wild music
Echoes urgently
Over the black lake

@Esther I am so glad you like it. Thanks for reading my poems and commenting. I really appreciate it 😊

This road will take me
Nowhere near the sun
Low cloud
weighs heavy on the hill
The thistles are gloomy
sad-nodding
Grey-bearded
Bedraggled has-beens.
There's a wren
In the rowan
His song
Swelling
like a little fist of red berries
Fighting to brighten the morning
And as I rise
I see the sun
Pale, silver
Like it's own ghost
Smiling.

Mist on the tops
Silver in the valleys
Goldfinch clouds
Tinkle high overhead
The soft exhalations
Of raindrops on turning leaves
Soft golden acorns
On my moorland oak
Little lights in the grey
I try to catch
Summer's wake
Betqeen me and the clouds
As a hundred beautiful geese
Disappear into the breeze
Their strong wings
Strumming the air

Autumn daisies
In lilac crowds
Soft against the misty wall
Small fields
At the top of my morning
Have had their only mowing
Filling the air
With all of the sweetness
All the goodness
Of a warm spring,
A wet summer
Heady-scented
Like a fine red wine.
I wish I could bottle
The beauty of the year
The snowdrops
The Skylarks
The song of the Curlew
The shine of the Raven
The mythical hare.

Her staring eyes
The brightest of yellow
Dangerous
Tearing over the field
Low over the wall
Straight at me
Beautifully wild
Barred tail,
Breast speckled and brown
taloned, clawed
And violent.
A swerve, over my head
A rush of air
And away,
across the morning
To find another pipit.

Into a blue morning
A west wind blowing
Caps of grey cloud
On tops of purple hills
Swallows are gathering
In great numbers
It can only be joy
That brings them together
In great sweeps of noise
And busy conversation.
Have you noticed how red
The Rowans are this year?
How the lanes are slicked
With sweet blackberries?

Grey and silent,
Nothing to speak of
Distracted by the gloom
And lost to the road
A glow on the mountain
A magical light
Grey turns to silver
A spell is cast
A Merlin flies
And leads me
To the morning
Deer are grazing
in the furze
Buzzards sailing
Over the edge
Calling
as the sun breaks through
And the day shines pewter
Silver and blue

Raven-light
Out of a stormy night
Dark and forbidding
A low-rumbling croak
A black cross
Tumbling from heaven
Like an outcast angel.
The morning brings
A heavy sky
The light rising
From the soaking ground
Knapweed and buttercups
Meadowsweet, Yarrow
Blackberries shine
Bright eyes in the ditch
Rain-dropped and sparkling.
Goldfinches, twenty two
Twinkling, tinkling
Scattering tinsel and glitter
Over the lanes.

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matty7w

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