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trinkie
06-Sep-07, 09:55
Lines on a Caithness Moor
By Ronald Thomson c,1965

Climb up the stony track
To the upper hill, to the moors
On a bright summer’s day
When time, all time, means nothing ;
Past the gate and on to the hill,
And there you are King of all you survey –
Miles and miles of moors.

Across these tracts are heather, peat and bog myrtle;
The sun is bright in the Heavens –
A breeze wafts over the heather
And brings an aroma of sea and moor air.
These moors swept by the wind
And beautified by the sea and rain,
Till a purple mass is seen near
And far into a distant haze;
See the long troughs
Cut deep into the moss –
Here and there pools of dark peaty waters,
Or black, black, peat moss cracked and split
Like some dried up water hole in Africa.

Wander farther into this Northern Oasis
Past banks of white fluffy cotton flowers.
Not a tree in sight – barren !
And yet beneath our feet, the forest of Yesterday!
Those white horizons, and vistas
Home of the partridge and hare,
Scenes of peace and solitude
Which shelter the grouse’s lair –
How pleasant to walk across this hill,
But how different in Nature’s hibernation
When the blasts of wind and rain, sweep and dance
In such a heaven wrought fury!
Till all is peace, and there is silence again.

By early Dawn’s dewy visitation,
By mid-day’s burning heat, or
By night-time’s Moon illumination,
The moor remains untamed, unbridled,
A world on it’s own,
Oblivious to the wills and whims of man -
Now see a village in the distance
Where moor and field converge
And wild and tamed Nature unite.

By Ronald Thomson c. 1965