At first nothing but dark silence,
stretches across the moor.
Frozen and still in the ice,
under the crystalline moon.
Ice puddles recall footprints,
of visitors past.
But I am alone,
none are here now.
Nothing stirs in this liminal place,
even the wind.
Frosted rocks suspended,
waiting for the warmth of the sun.
A sliver of light to the east,
pale but gathering strength.
A line of division,
chasing away the colourless night.
The horizon becomes a delicate spectrum,
of blues and pink.
The moor begins to wake,
red grouse the first early risers.
Colour stained clouds,
announce that the sun is near.
Bright heralds of the coming,
of the Golden One.
Finally, there it is,
a pin-prick of light at first.
Rising pale and red,
out of the cloud.
How many civilisations,
have worshipped this moment of magic?
Raising great stones,
to mark it’s coming?
The rocks of the tor glow,
to greet the arrival of the sun.
Red hot coals,
amongst the white ashen frost.
Light floods across the moor,
yellow grass and brown heather.
Both set ablaze by the fire,
that rises in the east.
andyhemingway 