For I cannot walk the Grimpen Mire,
over the moors I call my home,
I cannot bear to hear my breath,
above the hound that hunts alone.
I cannot scent the skeins of life,
tracking my heavy footsteps light,
to wear me down for food of thought,
this is where I lie tonight.
For I cannot cry for minutes left,
when its seconds I need to save,
resting moors of dark descents,
in these sodden Dartmoor graves.
A cry for help, a waning moon,
a warming tolerant Fox Tor fire,
burning slow through to the morrow’s dawn,
upon this, my Grimpen Mire.
©Nick Hawkins, all poetry rights reserved