One long-ago warm afternoon
I rode past high fells then clad in rough bracken
under a sky of unbroken blue
and cantered through canopies
of russet trees thrown over the roadside while
autumnal moor-land rose in
beautiful majesty shadowing wind and cloud
then halting I heard liquid laughter.
Where would streamlet pebbles
be found white as those at my dismounted feet
and could heathered summits
slumber through leaf-fall more peacefully
or lark-song appear so enchanting ?
I had heard it said that highland
air tasted of wine, flavoured with grass-scent
and drawing a lingering breath
as cool filled lungs I knew that made sense
as I gulped in ether-sharp drafts.
So divine was the reverential quiet
on my enlightened face that I closed awed
eyes and in vibrations of silence
caught nature's presence as never before.