Puffing a little after the burning breakfast toast
I attempt my usual stride but the
slippy chossy track is steep
so I fix my mind on the wind in high branches
and Red Kites scattering skyward
anything other than the deep sharp knife point
of asthma embedded in my
chest this morning
Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Mist lurks, gathers around a wan sun
in a fickle sky
Trees, afraid to stand in the open
stunted, bent, roots littered with bones
We pant raggedly, unyielding moor
draining us down to mires and darkness
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
We are off to hike in mid-Wales, where the farmers refer to the land as MAMBA (Miles And Miles of B**ger All). Hopefully, we won’t get lost!
I held a flower in my hand
Delicate, whole, perfect
A small world within itself
And, as we searched for a gate.
A stile, by which to leave the field,
I crushed it.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Puddles and pools of sunlight slide between the tree trunks
While shadows stripe the root strutted path
Somewhere above in the blue
A Kite swoops and scans for prey
Its forlorn cry cutting across the Blackbirds chatter
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Fog rose out of the valley
Where Hoar Oak Water runs
Swarmed up onto our hill path
Rose further to blot the sun
Encompassed within minutes
We faltered on our way
Scrambled up a steep slope
To see hills afloat on a vast sea
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
The big oaks at the corner
stretch their leaves to gather the evening sun.
A breeze lifts and turns them,
dark, bright, bright, dark.
Giving a green glitter effect
that entrances me
starting the long stretching walk along the lane.
As I walk, the sun lights overhead leaves,
creates broderie anglais shadows
where cars slowly trail only feet apart.
Above a lacy sheet of alto cumulus spreads
pierced by the setting suns laser rays
up to the stratosphere.
I pause to enjoy, then
move on past the McDonalds drive in.
Cars queue for their Friday night treat
around the roundabout and beyond.
Full of the bored and restless.
And I retrace my steps
on the sunlit stretching walk
back towards home.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Drowsing on the wayside
Halfway through our walk
We are stopped
Something rustles and I open my eyes
Raise my head
There in the red tipped grasses of the moor
Stands a doe, ears twitching
Black liquid eyes gazing into mine
Two creatures on the uplands
We exchange something in that moment
Before the nearby bleat of a sheep
Startles us each
And the moment and doe are both gone
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Hard round folds of green billow down to a cleft
A valley in the high moor
Ahead, a quilt of brighter hue lies piecemeal
Where wild moor has been tamed
As we walk, a second valley reveals itself
A child of fields not moor, sweet and wooded
At the meeting of the valleys we will turn to leave
The quiet high places, these hard round folds of green
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
We are walking on Exmoor this week
Cliff
I cannot take a breath
Swallow air
Rigid ribcage imprisons
Eyes fixated on the depth
A glinting lake beckons below
Made small by distance
Encircled by this cliff face
Glacially ground out
A bowl caverned into the mountain
Looking down exerts a pull
Closer to the cliff edge
Inhaling, stepping back
Defying the call of the cwm.
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Crying the moor
Sedge and moss, peat and grass
Cover the uplands
Sheep run from us, cattle simply watch
Clouds scud past, rain threatens
Stone track turns to muddy path
As we descend to the combe
Past the ruins, past the ponies
Towards the burble of falling water
The fluidity that carved the hill folds
The agent that governs this landscape
Made manifest in Hollocombe Water
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
The Cheesesellers Wife 