Grimpen Mire (My Hell)

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



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