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Hermes Varini Jul 2020
Play mae, auld moorlan wise,
Wi' thy martial Steel Lyre,
The enraged Sound of the Thunder,
While ah shall be, again,
In nae unworthy mare,
Wi' Targe Shield and Dagger,
Rising nae fellow-mortal,
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts,
Ironclad frae the Fire!
Another brief composition of mine, as glorifying the non-human voice of the thunder.
Michael Briefs Mar 2018
It may be grey and gloomy,
out on the moors,
but we have our cozy world,
inside of doors!
Our world is secret and snug
and looks out on plaintive air;
a sprawling country field with
blowing mists thither and who knows where.
We'll have our tea and our stories
and our expectant silences.
We'll let the bleak backdrop of time ebb
and flow, while we admire a vase of Irises.
Ours is a curious cradle of contentment --
just two friends living
a shared imagination against
a mad world, rife with resentment!
We'll spend the hours and stay our journey for
we have peered through the looking glass
and finally come to know:
our trip is spontaneous and
it doesn't matter which way we go!
Rachel Dyer Dec 2017
Home.
He whispered.
I felt the warmth slide down the smooth skin just behind my ear.
Home.
His lips pressed gently upon my forehead.
Come home.
This time louder.
Harsher.
Come home darling.
His accent thick and broad.
Aren't you tired?
Come rest by my side. Come drift in the heather high on the moors.
Come home to me.
Aren't you weary from the fight shield maiden?
Lay down your broad sword, remove your boiled leather let the ravens report your homecoming.
Come home.
Then his lips are on mine and they taste of the earth, of the dirt, of the mist, and that land of mine.
Home.
My eyes open and I see my ghost.
I knew it was you. Must it always be ?
Must it always be you who awakens me, who calls me home.
Just send me the mist. Just send me the moors. Just send me the piercing chill of the harbor in December. Wake me with the ancient call of gulls. Enough of the tortured remnants of the past we must both hide. Enough of this my love. Enough of this, goodbye.
Rachel Olivia Sep 2014
Strong music lilts over foggy hills
A bird flies overhead, it's tune being shrill
And with these words my heart seems to fill;
"This is your home. Your ancient home."

A tall, mighty castle rises over the moors
And a strong ocean's waves on the rocks are torn
Somehow, I know here my heart was born;
"This is your home. Your ancient home."

Strong Celtic music floats over the trees
A dancing in my heart just wants to be free
I whisper as I look at the tossing seas;
"This is my home. My ancient home."
My heritage is Sweedish, Scottish, English, and Irish. I've always felt close to those countries, their traditions, and music in my heart.

— The End —