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Wistman's Wood

There's eeriness in Wistman's Wood,

Where stealthy shadows slowly creep

About the boles of moaning trees.

There's terror where the foaming stream

Streaks all the gorge with ghostly light,

And creaking willows toss their arms

Naked and lean against the flood.

There's mourning on the bleak hillside,

And grief in sodden cotton grass

Black bogs, and peewits fluttering.

There's mystery in great grim tors

All silent in the sobbing rain

Where in the shade of Windy Post

A whist hound's baying to the moon.

And yet the wailing wind is dear-

A child, untamed, of that great clan

Of ling and gorse and granite grey.

One with the old eternal hills,

One with the tender moorland sky,

One with the ancient loneliness

Where peat fires burned and loved ones lie.

V. I . Phillips