Haworth Moor
Up there on the way to the bleak moor
I can breathe in the heart of the land
and I can see the ruins of the house
on the bulk of the hill’s shoulder,
way ahead, way up.
And the house is the goal, but the game is the moor,
heather and ling, and fresh north wind,
sphagnum moss and peat bogs.
And it’s cold, but it’s open country like my heart
and I can feel clear air in my body
and I can hear her voice
on the wind as it swirls around
and calls me up and further up.
Nothing in sight but stone walls following
contours and lone trees spaced along a ridge
and I can see the old house
far away, nearly at the top,
and a couple of bent trees to the side
… and that voice again, calling;
and the raven too
and I breathe hard as I climb
the steep side from the bridge.
And when I reach the house
its tumbledown walls and blank windows
look out over the moors and back down to the stream.
I am miles from home
and I can go anywhere from here, be anyone.
There is nothing to hold me,
and there is everything.
