A mist on the moor is magic,
brings tales of old that are tragic;
tales that are fresh
tales that are new
Tales of morning, sparkling in dew.
A mist on the moor is the haunt
of mythical men, lean and gaunt;
men cloaked in black
hidden daggers
Hidden flasks, drunken swaggers.
A mist on the moor brings yearning,
a longing for something, I’m learning
that’s just beyond grasp
just beyond sight
Just beyond reach like a thing in the night.
A mist on the moor, when it lifts
leaves ethereal dreams as gifts;
skies that are blue
inclement weather
Romantic none as a mist on heather.
Written while on tour in Scotland, 1990.