The rain falls steadily
Turning the granite to glass,
Blackened pots stacked in disarray
Sea birds wait en masse.
The boats are returning
Holds crammed with fresh fish,
To be sold to local eateries
A chefs signature dish.
Sitting in a tree lined gorge
This village on the Atlantic coast,
Is nestled under a brooding misty moor
Which has a terrifying boast.
The fog shrouded wilderness
Is home to a savage beast,
Many have witnessed the huge black cat
And the mutilated sheep on which it did feast.
A sky of portent and full of doom
Heather and bracken a sodden morass,
Jutting teeth of blackened rock
The moor folds low with tree scrubbed pass.
Where locals shelter in the nooks
And feeble light holds the moor at bay,
Night hours belong to the black, prowling beast
Hark the sunrise is for what people pray.
Daylight brings a differing scene
The moor is carpeted in a floral hue,
Birds and insects work in fevered joy
Sheep and ponies dotted under radiant sky so blue.
Centuries have past with little change
The moor rules for miles around,
Man has learned to live within its grip
And respect the power of this hallowed ground.
Phil Hall October 2013
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