On Dartmoor, south of Princetown

September 19, 2019

I have paused on my cycle ride,

by an old railway bridge,

solid Devonshire granite,

weathered with the passing of time,

but still the custodian of memories past.

I am momentarily mesmerised

by a steady stream of water

that issues and flows from an adjacent sphagnum bog,

one so typical of this terrain,

that waits to trap the unwary.

This land has a spongelike tendency

to trap and retain the water that falls on it,

and not just the water,

but stories and memories of all those folk who have

in years gone by,

called these Tor’s home.

For I am paused on a old mineral line,

the lives and deaths of so many

etched in the landscape around me,

and yet, like so many other travellers who have passed this way,

I pause to take in that magnificent view,

gazing far into the distance to the sea.

The sea that I feel constantly calling me from afar,

reflecting the sunlight in a blinding brilliance,

that hurts my eyes, forcing my hand to my forehead

to offer some shade.

And I feel the early autumnal chill,

it’s freshness enlivens me,

and I am all the richer for having breathed this air.

I am entranced and content

to be silent in my solitude,

but I do not feel alone,

the past makes for a good companion.

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