Hawk, Valley, Moor

Hawk is stonestill,
Yet alive above bracken.
It flies with style;
Kills with precision;
And obeys just two rules: survive, propagate.

Hawk eyes the trespassers of its land.
We sit on a hanging crag
(As victims of its wind),
From where we dissect the wide landscape.
Above the glen, the hawk’s summer heaven:
An ocean plain of heather
Plentiful enough in mice (not men)
To tie the hawk to the land.
Far below the hawk
(Out of the scar’s sheer drop),
Trees grow sideways.
Their muscular roots
(Like strapping arms)
Grasp the scree for life.
Higher, the moortops are raw enough.
They bring distance nearer —
As near as the hawk can fly.
A tall, thin white mast, at a long distance,
Sets north, south, east and west.

Now think yourself a forest
Where the moor blooms right now.
The trees within so tight
They strangle one another.
Think of the forest’s hunger for sun.
Now think of the glacial arrival.
Glaciers came to consume rock, earth and tree -
To dig out the deep valleys.
Now the rocks, high and loose,
Are still here as reminders.
The land, care of glacier and, later, man,
Shed its taut skin of trees.
Opened up its legs
And gave birth to what you see before you.
The moor grew.
It grew, slowly,
To the size of this land you see now.

So nothing, not even this moor,
Will last.
And nothing, not even these rocks,
Is ever truly still.
Just sit here awhile.
Wait.
Soon you’ll hear the moor breathe.
Then, for you alone, you’ll see it live.