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.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Exmoor by Owain Glyn )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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