The Wild Moors
 

Too many times I wandered
the wild moors
alone,
too many times I tempted
the weather
and survived dry;
too many times I heard Voices
and panicked,
wind in my face,
eating my bald head,
now I am content - at least for now.
Too many times I struggled
uphill,
too many times I was scared
of my Voice,
now I am in control
while the rain lashes my soul,
now I am content – at least this hour.
Too many times I gave way
to the Voice,
too many times I didn’t understand,
now I am master of the Voice
while the clouds gather
ominously,
now I am content – at least this trek.
Too many times I heard
the souls who got lost here,
too many times souls got lost
in the mist,
too many times a haunting Voice
whispered,
but I am content – at least on this rest.
Too many times I’ve trekked
this slushy path,
too many times I’ve watched
as it came to dusk,
the curlew distant far,
not many times a screaming Voice was
conquered,
but I am content: now I am in control.
I am content on the wild moor
as the clouds disperse once more,
these days I talk to my Voice
as one
not like the days of yore.
Now I am content:
dark on the moor
but bright in my soul.
With the wind on my back
and a song on my lips
I come off the wild moor
at last;
I have faced down my Voice
with the wind as a friend
now I am content:
it’s passed.