The mist hung low, above the moors
A gentle breeze, caressed the tors.
Ancient boulders, lost in sleep
Buried secrets they would keep.
Up above the buzzards fly
Soaring, soft, dissect the sky.
Below, swift rodents, deftly dance
And measure future with their chance.
Ponies bow their heads to chew
Leaving thought to me, or you.
Yellow gorse, bursts on the scene
While adders seek the sun, unseen.
The beauty that is held herein
Surpasses wrath, and mortal sin.
This is God's own chosen land
It's not for us, to understand.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
Hi Owain. With your permission I would love to use this poem in a promo video im making about the Exmoor national Park. Would you be happy for this to be spoken over a video and I will credit you in the credits? Please let me know. Thanks. Grace TSP
a beautiful ode to my favourite lady... ive never been to exmoor before but would love to go... maybe next year... sigh... thanks for this beautiful write...karen
Beautiful, well worded poem. Definitely way ahead my skill. You have true talent. My favorite section was (Up above the buzzards fly Soaring, soft, dissect the sky. Below, swift rodents, deftly dance And measure future with their chance.) I love the metaphors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beauty is flowing with your pen revealing a fine observer, yes the nature helps to understand that we can be part of its beauty if we can connect.