Another poem to inflict on y'all, now that I'm back in the States again and more or less caught up on sleep. My second (recent) attempt at poetry! Tell me what you think. We went looking for moors in Yorkshire. Stopped eventually at this place called Stine's Moor, which turned out to be in Derbyshire, not Yorkshire, but what the hell. I loved the area... the landscape... so beautiful. Evocative. Methos woke up. Depressed, I might add (g). Guess no one told him I was on holiday. Anyway, I wrote this when we got back to where we were staying that night.... which would've been right after Christmas. Not that that matters. Well, on with the poem I guess. Let me know what you think; poetry is not something I'm particularly confident about. --tarsh
Stine's Moor
Desolate, you thought
the first time i saw you
Vast.
Barren.
Windswept.
And then--
there was the stone you
mined from my soul.
Rough and cracked; riddled
in veins of colour:
polished in love it was
warm.
To your touch it leapt
eager,
while others pried and scraped their fingers bloody
scrabbling at the cracks of my heart you
you rode the wind right through
me,
Windswept!
And then--
there was the plant that grew
tough, and torn
and flowering in the depths of winter
roots clinging deep in the rocky soil of
your love. My love. Our
love,
Windswept.
And then--
there were the clouds that raced
thunderborne and exhilirant
wild wilful infectious
and the weight of you dragged them
down.
Earthed they lost nothing of their
splendour and you
were dwarfed beside them
Windswept.
And then--
Desolate, you thought
the last time you saw me.
Windswept.
Barren.
Beautiful.
Lost.
Tell tarsh what you think at tarshaan@moonlit-eyrie.com !
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