A Poem by Tideswellman. Feb 2015
On Stanage Edge, a great brown sea of Heather and Gorse, the moor, rushes up to Stanage Edge and stumbles over the many heads of the rock face.
The earnest facade of timeless rock shines out her many colours, standing proud in the cold light of winter, ripe with the shape nature has provided.
The wind whistles and whips round, and when she wants to be, is as warm as a country girl, who, flirting, tickling here and there, planting warm, breathy kisses upon the nape of your neck. Yet when her mood changes, she can be a wild and icy harridan, who could kill a man without pause for reflection, as she screams between the boulders.
Clouds, never far away, hang in the air, waiting to swoop and shroud the rocks in silky mist, forever changing and rearranging the feel of the landscape.
Here and there, Rusty Brooks brings forth the lifeblood of the moor, Water, a murderous colour stained red with Peat. Like a gentle, liquid knife, it slowly cuts through the moor and rock alike.
As ramblers struggle over boulders, squelch in bright black mud, a Jurassic sound stalks them, the Grouse laugh like naughty children as they play hide and seek with worried, wary walkers. stopping, peering as they try to pinpoint the sound.
Cuts and crags, nooks and caves call to people curious to know the moor, to try her, to own her, yet the scale of this fortress of wilderness swallows and humbles both man and beast, man cannot own this, nor digest this visual feast.
With senses overwhelmed a spell is cast that compels the moorland guest to return for pilgrimages uncounted.
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