Poetry by Robert Michell

"Lines Written Upon the Moor"

On the poetic right to passion       
I hike upon the sultry moor
where heather tufts abound
And clustered berries grow
in profusion all around.
Rolling fields are broken, here
by crags and rocky spurs
And rimmed by stands
of rugged tamaracks and firs.

Where shadows overhead
bring a touch of death,
Little ponies run with
heavy, snorting breath.
Up from bays and marshy shores
clad in misty wreaths
Low stone walls demark
ancient holdings of the  heath.

In all Moorish tales,
youth and innocence are cursed,
For nothing here is straight
or what it seems, at first.
Skirting granite monoliths
and mossy, covered logs
I come to the border
of a vast, miasmic bog,

Above me, sodden clouds
form a smooth and somber ply
While, on the mire are strewn
broken pieces of the sky.
Though tangled roots and brambles
 hide the run of hares,
They likewise veil the intrigues
deep in foxes’ lairs.

I chase the shouting wind
within the grasp of God, 
And with a heaving chest,
hurl myself upon the sod.
Here are tribal remnants
that time has left undaunted:
Cairns that are yet,
by savage spirits, haunted!

While, tracing wagon ruts
beneath a rocky tor
I feel a strange heartbeat
I’ve never known before:
Upon a precipice,
I become a feral child
Naked as the true, at last,
and utter as the wild!

Poetry by Robert Michell
rjmichell9@gmail.com