While an ever-running stream bubbles,
Coursing down its bed of sand and stones,
Overhead the larks soaring, calling -
All is calm, all is still,
All is spring.

Sometimes the wind sighs softly, far away -
Breathing in, breathing out.
Only a whisper ruffles the gorse,
Lightly touching rocks, that have stood sentinel for years,
Undisturbed, silent witnesses.

Meanwhile, I walk the turf of dormant grass,
A spring to my step of velvet moss,
A bed around me underfoot.

As my eyes go a-wandering
Across distant rolling hills and tors,
Blue haze casts its mantle far and wide.