Poets walk around invisible,

Hidden behind dogeared notebooks,

And daydreams. 

You catch glimpses of them in their words,

When they let you peak inside their heart,

Their head. 

Then you see them. 




Do you look at the sky and see her wild?

Do the clouds remind you,

Of the ink on skin,

The ink of words?

There’s a wildness that the horizon,

Can’t hold.

And for that moment,

I am the sky.


She is the ocean of moorland,

Only tamed briefly by fire.

And even then she’ll grow back stronger.

She is in the wind that blows unstopped across heather,

Knotting your hair,

And filling you with want.

She’ll remind you you’re alive,

Blowing away sadness like the chaff that it is.

Indifferent to you,

She’ll help you find yourself.

She’s my soul.