Oh! Moorland in September
To love and to remember.
The air is still and sunlit,
The moor's a russet bed,
The bracken's turning beryl,
The whortle leaves are red.
Here stand five sister pine-trees,
Gold-nimbussed by the sun;
And near, a slender rowan,
Its scarlet reign begun.
A runnel near is singing
A song of liquid glee,
A saucy, joyous blackbird
Tilts bubbling notes at me.
Then in a magic circle
Seven thick white smokes upcurl,
And forks of flame triumphant
Like crimson flags unfurl.
They rise with grace, and slowly—
Flower incense from the ling,
Repaying summer splendour
By an autumn offering.
Oh! Moorland in September
To love and to remember.
WEST END, BLUBBERHOUSES.
* The annual burning of the heather.