November Moors Poem by C Richard Miles

Dour, frowning skies hang looming low across the sheep-less moor
All set for sleep beneath November’s grim, hypnotic gaze
A sombre shroud of grey bedizens weary telegraph poles
Upon the cheerless tops. like aching masts of age-ancient sloops
Sloping slowly home in shame from encounter in lost wars,
Slung with sullied sheets of sail before the battering breeze.
Abandoned pastures sore lament their loss of fleecy flocks
Their woolly denizens betrayed them to seek solace, safe
In the valley’s pleasant plain with greener grass to satisfy
And silent fall the fells until the distant, wished-for spring
When leaping lambs will rouse them from their dreamless doze
And rebirth will bestow relief to lonely, pining hills.