TOP WITHINS

Absence has not erased

the rugged beauty of brooding moorland.

But what else did I expect?

Thirty years between myself and the summit

has intensified obsession, yet eroded boundary walls

and doubled the height of the tree

that now casts a much broader shadow

over imagination's idyll. House walls are crumbling away.

It's no longer as the Earnshaws knew it,

is even more inimical now. The old farmhouse 

in which we once took refuge has fallen victim

to vandals' idle hands

and the Elements' tumultuous battering.

The cries of skylarks seem fainter

than I remember, like an old recording

time-worn and gradually fading into silence.

Buzzards circle prey beneath the summer sky,

and isolation closes in.

Unless a dedicated Bronte fanatic,

you would never venture this far into wilderness

in search of the myth,

nor curse Emily for your aching legs

and the sombre emptiness that envelopes you

with a churlish welcome

that needs no spoken word or printed page

but, instead, appears to issue

straight from Heathcliff's tormented Soul...

TOP WITHINS

I am heading out into the Cornish wilderness tomorrow, so will be taking a few weeks off (as I know from experience that internet connection there is patchy at best)!

So, have a great time until I "see" you all again...:))

THE GREENWOOD MUSES

Through thicket and forest clearing
I sought the Greenwood Muses
in an effort to ignite creative fuses.
But all I perceived were trees whispering
and in the westerly breeze swaying.

Shafts of sunlight dappled the way:
a winding path between bushes of gorse,
deeply indented with hoof prints of horse.
And the sweetest song of robin and jay
over my senses that day held sway.

Brightness of noon-sun striking
enhanced my subtler senses:
could've sworn I glimpsed through boundary fences
tiny Elves in the tall grass prancing
and rainbow-coloured Faeries dancing.

Was it trick of the light, or second sight?
Either way I was fully transfixed
and suddenly found myself caught betwixt
two worlds and feeling like Snow White
in her elusive realm of fanciful delight.

Well half of me couldn't believe it at all,
while the other half couldn't dismiss
the possibility I'd unwittingly crossed the Abyss
and discovered that place where after all
the Muses held me in utter thrall.

LAST SUNDAY AT THRUXTON

In search of Aiden Moffat

This man eclipses the Greek Gods
and doesn't even have to try.

His voice over the car radio (aah, that accent!)
transmitted to the hyped-up spectators.

His foot to floor, speed increasing,
Mercedes engine screaming in pain.

From where I'm standing, a blue blur -
increasingly surreal, it seems.

Projecting consciousness into those wheels:
a mental passenger, undetectable.

Wow, the exhilaration -
and not from mere speed alone!

His heartbeat merging with my own,
synchronizing with another plane.

Adrenaline pumping, pumping;
stimulating depths wholly unknown.

Now race is finished, all too soon.
But, pumped up, I'm hypnotically driven:

dodging mad crowds and scouring the pits
for Scottish flag - it's blue and white

symbolic of  Laser Tools Racing.
Fighting, fighting, I get to the front -

and here's the proof I'm telling the truth:

And was he there? Oh yes, but I
never got to meet him. Why?

I froze and stood there, overawed
like dumbstruck teen - how sad am I? Lol


PS/
     I did, however, manage to take this photo! ;))