He punished his feet up and up the tall hill with the woolly weather hat.
Turning a little, He breathed the secret air that shyly danced around him.
Here he stood: where the golf ball moon was a ghost behind a thick cloud wall.
His head shook. He took in too much unmapped, and vague England.
Spying a blurred line, of unknown height, he asked himself-
‘what truly is the highest point? Where to see the heath laid vistas? ’
The sole grouse shrieked and split in two, or three, becoming a slender flock
Fading like that question, and answering back.
‘The heights are for the rocks and wind, to wear away for endless ages’.
At once he knew. Here, where the mobius stream rattled, glugged on melted snow,
Silence was an old worn vow, broken only by animal kind,
The seldom cries and wails, from the herds and birds and the sad horses in the field.
Yet he smiled, through his dry creased lips, and thought to himself:
‘My home’s not here where the purple heather laps the green mint puddles.’
‘A land alien to its self. Beyond purpose, other than to help me breathe.’
The battle on the eyes and mind had faded.
He turned on his weary axis, back beyond the drizzly moor garden.
He went on along the road. Towards the lines and grids of home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.