Walking on the Tor.

 
 
 
When it came,
has never gone away,
a fair maid,
a damson tree.
 
A bridge of carved painted hewed wood,
from the chalice to the hill,
she sings for love,
all our will.
 
A stopping place,
where poems may be writ,
seats of rushes,
lantern lit.
 
I lay down presents for those that wake to the stars,
six pitches at the seat of Mars,
that gipsy braid,
made us all,
is saved.
 
 
A child fills her flowing pitcher,
all is light,
remembering that Wally Hope.
 
A donkey brays,
old Brock leads the way.
 
An hopeful man who looks after retired chickens
and gives a bed to dreaming travellers.
 
Mid winter on the Levels,
 
 
 
fin
 
 
 
Sunday 2nd September 2007.
For the herb growers and the healers.