There is gorse, of course, and furze growing across the moor.
The oak and ash are there in grouped confusion.
Tousled roaming horses, search for sources of grass, mature,
And the hawthorn and elm, remain standing in seclusion.
Brilliant sunshine burns, and turns the heather, distinctly bronze.
And tumbling brooks sparkle exceedingly, in its glow.
Misty mornings descend, and they befriend the drying fronds,
While natural springs freely bubble and gently flow.
Birds invade this space, and race each other o’er the fells,
Crying and squawking in the fresh clear air.
The scene becomes, a kettledrum’s arena, where music dwells,
And swift and sprightly ventures out the hare.
With ears alert to danger, he’s a ranger on this earth,
But a fine and nimble creature in his guise.
Here one can measure, nature’s treasure, beauty of such worth,
And then again, there is the owl who’s always wise.
© Ernestine Northover
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.