Tasted.
One long-ago golden afternoon
I rode past high fells thick clad in rough bracken
under a sky of unbroken blue
and cantered through canopies
of russeted treetops thrown amidst moorland
while autumnal mist rose in
slow wisps as cloud-shadow approaching
I halted and listened to liquid laughter.
Where would streamlet pebbles
be found white as those at my spurred feet
and could purple summits
slumber through winter more peacefully
or lark-song appear so enchanting ?
I had heard it said that highland
air tasted of wine, flavoured with grass-scent
and drawing a lingering breath
heather-filled lungs inhaled beauty\'s honey
as I gulped in ether-brewed drafts.
So divine was that highland quiet
on my horse-ridden face that I closed awed
eyes and in vibrations of silence
caught nature\'s presence as never before.