There’s low cloud, and a curtain falls,
shrouding and dousing shape and colour,
vision withered to a frieze of grey,
horizon shrunk down to a fringe of heather.
I know the moor in every season, every weather,
even blizzard, even driving snow,
finding my way down hard-ice gullies
to frozen reservoirs below.
Part of me wants always to be where
low cloud is closing in on ling
and, beyond cattle-gate and grid,
a cloak of mist is falling.
– David Morphet 2015