Trapped as an unintentional consequence
of the weather’s sudden shift,
the mist of myth envelops the moors
and strands us in
the bleak backdrop of gothic literature and Hollywood.
It is not merely our innocence
whipped by gale-force gusts of change.
National identity balances on the tip
of some vast unstable scree,
the trip wire of ownership
sweeping through the moors in a line
we are told is defined by
long-held tensions over class
and clashes with
those who regard nature as a commodity
and live in listed buildings stripped down
to hardwood floors and wainscoted walls.
The veteran Naturalist, still boasting
a mind that crackles like a generator,
embraces a neutral landscape
rich with the smell of fresh air,
and revels in the magic of
a bird’s nest the colour of winter.