Guisecliff Crag, August
Where the fragrant heather moorland borders
wildwood, by the crags above the river,
the harebells and last fading heads of clover
nod themselves to sleep in drowsy August.
The ling is now full-on and tightly ordered
spikes of tiny flowers blanket over
the landscape like an Emperor’s purple toga
swathed across the heights, but thrice more gorgeous.
The fated grouse may look up and half-notice
rowan berries reddening on the trees.
We sip the bilberry’s blood, consume the bloated
drone of pollen-laden honeybees.
This track can be a tramp but we are floating,
lofted by the nectar on the breeze.