Haworth Moor

 

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.