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,
of 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. 

~