A Moors Morning

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The sheep are wet this misty morn
They’ve yet to give a bleat,
The hiker’s footsteps leave no sound
Across the soft brown peat.

Heavy dew drips from the heather
It beads the spider’s den,
The buzzard waits upon the hill
For mist to clear the glen.

A bee clings to the needled gorse
Bedraggled and alone,
Last night she drank too much nectar
And couldn’t make it home.

Then through the mist, a new, strange sound
A new-born lamb’s first cry,
A signal for the sun to wake
And for the mist to fly.

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