Heathers
Another poem I wrote in 1991. Laughing with shared secrets, we sprang across the moors - boots heavy with peaty-earth, faces radiant with the winter air and each other. The heather was our sampler, where new joys, unwrapped in the shivering air, were offered, tasted and savoured. Too impatient, our eyes too naked, we could not see what would become of our wilderness shared. The eager cold, goose-pimpling us, would numb our emotions, and the the moors would be scorched grey.