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.