Piano mor
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fiogf49gjkf0d Down the path to Doublewaters,
Calling wayward dogs to heel,
Dashing sons and dainty daughters,
Gorse and brackened games conceal,
Grazing Dartmoor ponies nodding,
As if recalling Spring's first foal,
Honeysuckled air infusing,
Joy into our weary soul.
On Bodmin moor June’s sun is setting,
Tin mine towers in sharp relief,
Through the mottled woodlands streaming,
Shafts of evening’s golden sheaf,
Sound of pebbled waters rising,
Beckon weary walkers on,
First embracing then refreshing,
Two streams reaching Tamar’s run.
Now in memory returning
To my childhood days of grace,
Ever youthful ever yearning,
To walk again in sacred space.
Every Sunday through the summer,
City dwellers park their cars,
Sipping tea midst idle chatter,
Watching hikers from afar,
Disappear into the distance,
Toward the valley far below,
Barely noting their existence,
Emerging later face aglow.
Jonathan Patrick Moore C 2006
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