The Moor

This place is bleak; cold and exposed
A vapid landscape, quite morose
Through bleakness born of constancy
The moor is its own legacy

Wild heather offers some relief
With coloured bud, next tiny leaf
In multitude, their strength in number
Do not impress the moor in slumber

It offers up no lame excuse
For being here, a lone recluse
While eons pass without relent
The moor sleeps here, but pays no rent

Should I return in years from now
With time etched on my furrowed brow
I will recall my last time here
The moor will not, alas, I fear