Anthony Foster (26-10-47 / Isle of Wight)

We walked up a narrow lane with mossy walls, the hairy one and me,
And when we ventured onto the moor, we were feeling free,
Our footprints take us up the heather clad slope towards the granite Tor,
And a sharp intake of breath the view the view stretching out over the moor.

The weathered granite rocks, assumed strange shapes, which framed the vista of our view,
We sat down on the rocks which was furniture for us, in order to have our brew,
A cup for me, a billycan for the dog, for the way ahead needs to be steady,
The primus makes a hissing sound as we wait for our brew to be ready,

A biting wind assailed us as we left the Tor, to thread our way down the well worn path,
Following the course of a leat, where an ancient stone cross emerges from the grass,
With the wonder, magic and mystery of the cross and why the cross was there,
The cross is leaning so we pause, then stop for a few moments to wonder and to stare,

We were on our way once more passing a low cliff with the hairy one racing ahead,
In and out of the bracken, back and forth, my canine friends hurried lead,
The Dartmoor ponies ignore us the sheep don’t want to know,
We were in a different place, a different world, as onward we did go.

We turn our direction unto the west towards the tannery town of Tavistock below,
Off the moor, narrow lanes lined with mossy stone walls, descending as we go,
This walk, these many miles, has left our bodies gently aching feeling tired,
While our souls they seem to feel refreshed, uplifted and inspired.


leat: - A man made stream
Tor: - Rock Outcrop