“Winter on Dartmoor”

Across the moor, a pewter sky hangs low,  
Where granite tors in silent council stand,  
Their lichen cloaks and crowns of frost aglow  
Above the tufted, sleep-swept, sodden land.  

The heather, bristled brown, forgets its bloom,  
While bracken curls in copper at the feet  
Of hawthorns, mossed and huddled in the gloom,  
Bent to the winter’s rhythm and retreat.  

A wind runs wild—a lean, unbridled hound  
That whips the narrow lanes with mournful cries,  
And scatters sheep like snow across the ground  
While ravens scribble secrets in the skies.  

Streams buckle, black with peat, beneath the chill,  
Yet press their silver laughter through the ferns;  
They know that what is bleak will soon be still,  
That winter’s law is just another turn.  

And in the dusk, as all the world grows white—  
A hush, a pause, a breath between the years—  
Dartmoor endures, austere but infinite,  
Cradling its legends through the frost and fears.

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