He runs the moor on gritstone paths,
The heather pollen thick in eyes
Unused to sun and distant skies.
He fears his shadow on the quartz.
He’d built an image of the breeze,
But now, at last, he feels her touch.
He looks about but cannot see
The fingers running through his mane.
He tastes the blood upon his tongue.
His heart is bursting through his throat.
The moorland paths run on and on,
Across a world un-walled, unknown.
Below the earth he stood up proud,
But here – so small – his head is bowed.