Moor Heatwave

I dragged a tired body
Through the sweating air,
And away from the sun’s sharp gaze.
Heather gripped my boots
To drag me back… and back again.

The heather, awash with fire a day ago,
Was now a black, unshaven stubble
That crunched and crumbled under foot —
Giving off a fine dust.
(That ritual burning was man’s remedy
For the heather’s colonial dreams.)

I then headed, straight and true,
For the moor’s edge —
Which led into a welcoming sky.
The sun didn’t meet me.
I stared at its cool distance.

The heat, now thick as concrete,
Dragged me down
To the size of a trudging trooper.
I walked on… walked on through walls of heat
And snares of heather.
My body held me back;
Though I slogged on, regardless.