It's Dartmoor Poem by Mark Heathcote

Be known for-its tin mines, its watery cavernous caves?
Ancient as any surrounding granite hills-
is its peat bogs? Dotted with Stone-Age landmarks
its moorlands of abandoned medieval farmhouses,
it's rocky cairns its wooded valleys, windy tors.

It's intriguingly-bleak, yet incredibly-beautiful
I might even say it's hauntingly mystical.
Top with 'feather beds' of bright green moss,
where a dying, scream, might be forever lost.
Bell heathers border on yellow, wild gorse.

While a headless horseman is out-galloping, riding
beneath a beguiling full-cloudless-moon yes,
you might ask, what is that sound that sounds
like a distant ghoul, could it be the spectral hound,
is it baying, is it calling for your blood?

Legend has it there are ancient haunted stone circles
where-pixie's-dance near boggy moorland areas
frequented by common lizards the marsh fritillary butterfly,
and adders, the pied flycatcher the wood warbler
above streams Fairy-shrimp momentary swim together.

Legend has it that during the Great Thunderstorm of 1638,
the moorland village of Widecombe-in-the-Moor
was visited by the Devil-himself. Maybe he was-
just lost or taking shelter but no one knows for sure?
'It's Dartmoor—it's Dartmoor—it's Dartmoor, '
the wind scores the reeds heard deplorably crying.