She sits there
She sits there on Dartmoors solitude,
As wild as the moor itself.
Her mind as bleak as the terrain.
Her hair blowing into a tangled frenzy,
and still she sits there.
Her piercing eyes as blue as cornflowers,
Her dress as purple as heathery hues.
Her hair as red as the now dead bracken.
Her clogs as yellow as gorse ablazing.
Her black cloak billowing like the stormclouds overhead
Yes she sits there.
She sits there waiting for her lover.
Unaware that he has found another.
She sits there motionless, hour upon hour.
Her heart torn like a carcass,
as she mourns her lovers loss.
Day turns to night, and night to day.
Within the first rays of sunrise,
she lies there.
She lies there her skin as blue as ice.
Her heart as cold as the biting wind.
Her eyes as frost, Her lips as blood,
Her brittle hair entwined with twig and moss.
Yes she lies there.
She lies there her heart betrayed by love.
No longer tormented by her loss.
The shepherd found her and buried her there.
All she had left was her beloved moor.
And now she lies there,
Under damp peat and a granite cross,
And on that cross are etched three words…..
……….She sits there.