.
Beneath umbrageous canopies
the contiguity of growth
forms adamantine barriers
where brambles arc in underwood.

There lost  in damp obscurity
and muffled by the quaggy moss,
a stolid land with sounds unheard
in supernatural silences.

And in the grey of leaden dawn
the chilling tones of slate blue skies
reflect  in drops of cold wet dew;
in lands where no men tread.

The spongy earth springs underfoot
Concealing all below;
You mind your way,
This eerie day,
You're careful how you go.

As mists roll off the craggy moss
Concealing all above;
You find your way,
This eerie day,
About a place you love.

A speck of rain anoints your head
Concealing thoughts inside;
You see your way,
This eerie day,
To let your qualms, subside.

The heather forms a carpet here
Concealing peril's traits;
You pick your way,
This eerie day,
Where a quaggy snare awaits.

The day is cool, the wind is sharp
Concealing mortal sound;
You hear your way,
This eerie day,
Ear firmly to the ground.

Envisage ghosts of people past
Concealing souls admired;
You wend your way,
This eerie day,
Where Brontë's were inspired.

But you are where you need to be
Concealing troth secure;
You hide away,
This eerie day,
In the solace of the moor.

ASJ