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,