The Moorland River Poem by Peter Strugnell

Down from a spring in the tor's sloping side
bubbles the river in infancy's pride,
over the boulders, 'neath red mountain ash,
into still pools which lay check to it's dash,
over brown troutlets and weeds waving green,
it tumbles and chortles and rushes on keen,
smoothly it flows past each heather-crowned brink,
down to the ford where the wild ponies drink,
then again madly it charges the stones,
leaping them, bouncing off, changing it's tones,
now roaring as foaming o'er boulders it glides,
on ever onward, it rushes on free,
'till it's engulfed by the measureless sea.

Arthur F. A. Millett