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Moorland Pool – July

Summers Slipped Blue

On the moors a silver flow of water reflects a changing sky

Bogs usually cracked dry by this time ring wet through

Dry feet  as rare now as  December

Rain on my horizon drifts over monotone moorlands

Low light seeps through bruised cloud

A winter pool in July is edged with nodding grasses

Filled with a with a moment

Of  summers slipping blue

Warm air raises half hearted ripples

While midges bite on my still grit stone seat

Winter Pool - July

Clouds drift across their own reflections

Brighter than themselves

Painted on the pool by chance

I wait until darkness softly rubs them out


Bruised cloud Over Pule Hill