The Moors

On the same earth that hikers tread,

That families pace with unleashed, wet dogs,

Grows weeds from skin-soaked soil.

Buried secrets lay beyond the beauty,

Beneath the billowing, yellow-tipped blades,

The far-reaching, unending wildness of the moors.

They cannot see where not to dredge,

For no grave marks that spoiled spot,

Where innocence collided with evil.

An ungodly act upon godly land,

Below the same starlit sky of their aching mothers,

Alone.

Alone amongst the unforgiving, blustery winds,

A rough and raging nature that haunts the undulating hills.

They do not know that they unwittingly touch,

Such unspeakable horror and sadness with each stride.

The air should somehow be denser there, colder.

Breath should catch and hairs should stand,

Yet, to the eye, there is no trace of death and depravity.

The moors have reclaimed its face and with it,

Concealed its darkest of pasts.

The memory of them doesn't hide underground,

But the filth can stay hidden for all of time,

And from foulness may brimming life stem,

To absorb the moment and the violent truth.

Let them walk, and laugh, and live.

Let them fill the unthinkable with the familiar.

Let them squash the hate into the dirt,

And take back the land that was stolen from our youth.