Walking grass brushed, hare-bells
sway purple in the wind,
a wilderness of peat and bilberry
grit and grounded in rock sprayed by Low and High Force.
Before Cauldron Snout
doomsayer warns, “push on to the fall
if fall there is, fear follows.”

Scrambles sting the knee,
how distances amass memories
ten thousand paces today,
up hills to the shooting
white foam over Crow’s Stones
millennia in the making
South Tees washes miles,
while bees dance pollen in the sun.

Cairn Hill is a hard-breath climb,
forget Orgreave? It was Tina’s crew
who marketed our children’s silver
to pocket gold. This earth cannot be bought
or sold, we are the carers for sundew
and starred bog asphodel, nurture
this England, as a child in your arms,
for all our tomorrows.

© Jeffrey Loffman