Walking over the moor on a sunny day, the wind at my back, I saw before me a woman over-burdened by a voluminous rucksack She trudged along face against the wind Reached a gulley filled with bramble bushes and turned around a bend. I looked for her when I reached her point of departure But could see nothing. In fact as I looked I became increasingly unsure That I seen her that day. The moor was full of mist, And in truth, I was fairly ******. Walking over the moor the following day I searched the land for the best possible way To reach Croven, a village first settled by the ancient Brits, Whom the Romans had routinely cut to bits, Where I had left my wife and car. Going around in circles, up and down, lost in the mire Of marsh and bog, the mists kept descending And my return to Croven, wife and car, seemed never-ending When I saw the woman approach me again The rucksack straddling her back like a fin I called out in a tired and plaintive voice She walked through me over the purple grass in a trice Stopped, looked back, noticed my agonised expression of a man completely lost, Squealed, dropped the rucksack and began screaming about a ghost I did the same belting headlong into the marsh Dying swiftly there, which I thought was kinda harsh! I still see the woman when I trudge a sad spectre through the moor But we greet each other now, knowing each is Nevermore.