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Life On The Edge
Where the west wind winds, whining,
In thorn-bush crowns, shining.
To the stone edge,
And the rough sedge, of the high moorland wastes.
There the red grouse call, courting,
And the great hares box, coursing,
By the peat hags,
And the steep crags, of the high moorland wastes.
Where the ravens dance, daring
On the rotor winds, stirring
By the black ledge
Of the great edge, of the high moorland wastes.
The fierce tiercel soars, screaming,
With the weasel, caught, dreaming,
Of the young hare,
A much better fare, of the high moorland wastes.
There I love to stroll, soft, striding.
Mosses, sun soaked, larks chiding
On the high waste, that’s to my taste
And the life on the edge.
