Between Tolmount and a hidden line,
I measure an unmarked phrasing of
Moor enfolded in highland sky,
Punctuating the alban laid,
As slow as still, but not quite.
Three hares birl a bonny dancer’s arc,
Lofting at an uncertain range to
Gaze unfazed through spindrift blinter.
They outflank my wallows with
Feral graces as quick as magic.
From waypoint stone to snow moled mark,
Steady as a better man’s faith,
I will hold my bearing true.
I will dot-n-dot-n-dot this beloved in-between,
Until the passage returns to ground.
.
.
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sds 