Kissing Gate at Exmoor
A partial sun suffuses slender weeds
in ocher light. Beside an echelon
of gorse and heather, wispy Maiden Pink
has nearly lost its bloom. The lapwing’s gone
to glide across the mound and mind her young,
as silently as August slips away.
Long sedges with their tawny oval heads
spring out from brambles forming a bouquet
of summer’s final hues. Beyond the gate
low rolling hills have leveled out to bring
a voiceless greeting to the lake. And peace
spreads through the moor, beneath a merlin wing.
(Published by The New Formalist 2009)