Every star over the moors was a trouble,
before it was speaking in light, the way stars do.
Every journey was meaningless dust, until
that moment the feet touched water and tingled.
Granite beneath us is restless in its core;
cooling, heating, repeating patterns of flux.
The old Dartmoor saying is true now
gorse is in flower and kissing’s in season,
while the stream closest to home
is singing the song of songs.
‘Stream’ was first published in ‘This Given’, a limited edition pamphlet by Paper Dart Press