Poetry

                   O! To stroll again on Dorset's rugged moor

                   Of tranquil memories, vivid and so pure

                   Where endless precious hours were often spent

                    And not one isolated moment did I lament             

                    Those momentary things inconsequential       

                    But with each minute, view God's beauty - quintessential.

                    To feel the crisp of frost-covered heather beneath my sole

                    And heed the greens and purple where 'ere I stroll.

                     I felt not, bare-leg’d skin when rent by prickl'd gorse

                     Though ne’er once did I feel anger or remorse

                     At mother nature's loving, playful ways

                     That she bestowed upon me in my bygone days

                     O! To watch again grey smoke billow from the stack

                     Of toy-like engines with carriages, red and black

                     Chugging forward busily on tracks of steel

                     Creating visions haunting and surreal           

                      Over restful, matted heath and moor-land stream

                      Onwards, towards their journeys into nowhere, it would seem

                       Cutting swathes across the isolated heath

                       Their vented steam a-rising from beneath

                       And country folk who ne'er the fare could pay

                       Yet with their eyes enjoy their regal splendour

                       Majestic as an artist's eye would render.

                       They, to pace the hour-long walk along the track

                       From their humble cottages and back

                       To hear the mournful voices of the plover      

                        Exchanging anxious calls to one another

                        When the wat'ry moon begins to slowly wane

                         And icy patterns form upon the window-pane

                         The skaters’ frolics cease upon the frozen pond

                          As Jack Frost puts aside his wintry, magic wand

                          And hoary mists lay still upon the ground

                          He disappears into the night without a sound

                          When the time arrived for all to cease their roaming

                           I would depart for the warmth of home amid the gloaming