The track
Have we gone far enough on our walk?
Shall we sit on a bank of grass
and gaze to the beckoning loch?
Beware of the storm that blows from the North,
how gathers the blindness of night,
for lost on the moors is many a life.
The track has done well so far.
It is made from the spoil of mines,
and meanders through hills
with crystals of quartz, of iron pyrites
and pale copper blue
that shine from its back.
In our coats we gather such lesser jewels.
Do you think we can make it to the lapping water,
the haunt of heron and reeds
to dip our hands in ambered shallows,
to listen to the curlew's lonesome cry?
Or shall we rest for a while with the grass of last year,
go home with our pockets of quartz and fool's gold?
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Colin
iron pyrites = fool's gold
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