Buzzards over Dartmoor
Where Pork Hill levelled a little,
we hung a left by the ponies,
standing in the shade by the dewpond.
It was hot by the soft grasses,
hotter still in the Cox Tar valley.
You led the way in denim shorts,
I followed, all bare-chest bustle,
right to the top of high Roos Tor
for a picnic in the heavens.
The heat was shadowing far mist,
no sign of the sky collapsing.
With our backs on flatter granite
we watched four buzzards in free flight.
No visible movement of air,
riding the high roller-coaster,
pulled like puppets on string,
hidden by the faintest outline of clouds.
Even when quite close, no sound
to call attention to the dance.
Page(s) 12
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