#moors
This Winter I slept a lot on my couch in my TV room
As it's my main room for living and working in
And it's also the warmest room in the house
I'd be lying there with some clothes thrown over me
And with my Mom's old fur coat like a big bearskin on top of me
It'd been a tough year what with my work
I've developed a strange condition, a kind of weakness in my head
Probably from doing too much, overstretching myself...some kind of burnout thing
So now I'm always drinking herbal teas that are supposed to be good for the brain
In the hope they might ease my condition, even cure it
There's one tea I make, it's a mixture of rosemary and lavender
It's good for the circulation and bringing blood to your head, the cerebral area
Rosemary though I've discovered is a bit funny, it also affects the pelvic region
It's a feckin' aphrodisiac, it makes you *****
One night after drinking a big mugful of this concoction
I had one of my funny otherworldly type dreams
I woke up suddenly and didn't know where the hell I was
All I knew was I was ***** as hell
All I can remember doing is getting up in a daze
Then putting on my mother's big fur coat
Then going outside, out onto the moors to howl at the moon
Next morning when I awoke I found myself lying on my kitchen floor
I couldn't remember a thing about the night before.
Awhile later I was down the shop and I overheard these bunch of farmers talking real anxiously among themselves
They were saying "Did you hear the terrible howling last night out on the moors
Scared all the farm animals, scared the wife and kids too, terrible it was
People say it was some kind of strange bear-like creature
We're going out tonight with our guns to hunt it down"
I looked away and thought to myself "I hope they won't be using any...any silver bullets".
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 8:10 PM UTC
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!
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:36 AM UTC
She will take the dog
for a run on the Moors.
She hates being cooped up
in this fine weather indoors.
She walks briskly
past the graveyard
watching the dog
run ahead.
Her father is busy
on his Sunday sermon
as she heard his voice
booming through
his study door.
Her brother lies in bed
sobering up
after last night's binge.
Her sister is in the kitchen
helping with dinner
and her other sister
working in a distant town
as governess
to rich folk's kids.
She walks
eyeing the dog
running ahead
but looking back
with his drooping tongue
and keen eyes.
She breathes in the air
brisk and strong
and brushing her hair.
She imagines
she will meet him here
up on these moors.
She doesn't want one
who hates the fresh air
or stuck in the rut
of commercial dealings.
She wants one who
braves the elements
and has those
romantic feelings.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
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!
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
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.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
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."
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC