He thought the moor would never end.
He ran until his feet were raw,
Until he left a trail of blood
Congealing, black as caves at night.
This freedom broke just like his heart:
It severed joy and shattered veins.
He ran until the hurting ceased,
Until he had no more to give.
And there just where the bleeding stopped
The moorland track had turned to grass,
And reached the edge of high sea cliffs.
He stopped and stared into the waves.
The ocean heaved and rolled its dead,
The waters grey and thick with lead.