(Bob asked me, ‘what is it like wandering on the moors?’)

I have wandered moors.
There are no features
The only drama the abstraction of your presence.
All is texture.
At your feet
duvets of heather
stumblings of stone.
The pinching of brambles
distracts from destination.
Subdued colours, consoling hues.
It is an immersion, not a passage.
It is place without position –
a transition from a known bustling ‘here’ –
to a beauty of rolling ‘elsewhere’.
A silence.
This is no place for a child.

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