From up here on the Bluff
The fields are pocket-handkerchiefs
The clouds below paint moving shadows on the land;
The Bluff stands like giants shoulders,
The heads removed,
They rise with perilous slopes even a sheep could tumble on.
The wind unseen but felt, blows all eastwards,
The grass fronds trim the purple heather
Like ribbons in a wedding bouquet.
Heather does not bow to the wind it bounces,
Its thick strong body grown used to the winds dominance.
Pools of water blackened with peat
With passing clouds reflecting in,
Beware the surface glossy black enticing you
To think that you could just step i
For all such pools have hidden depths
Known only to the moon,
Perhaps beneath the bluff faerie caves
Chilled by the haunting music of the wind
Played by an orchestra of reeds tuned by rabbits,
Watched over by a circling buzzard who alone
Is higher than the highest spur
And sees a tiny world beneath and understands
The vastness of the universe.
I stand halfway in awe – quiet on nature’s edge,
Knocking on its door – wondering if it will ever let me in?
Caroline Baldock © 2017