Moorland Ponies

There are wild horses in the heather; their neighing follows the wake of hewing wind-wraiths. The ponies are hardy and stout, they go in and out of the clouds, slip through swale and dingle. The moors are high. You don't feel the altitude only the depth of the land. When the sky turns sullen it tilts to smother the earth. If the scything winds falter, the shallow sod bogs into sumps and divots Where trees cannot be, clouds spread a muffling mizzle over gorse and grass, a grazing tide carries a spume of chills. The hills here are thigh deep, rills of dark water loiter and seep. The small ponies shake their matted manes, mist-sprays pool in muddy hoofprints, the warm brume of their snorts leads you onward on a lonesome track for they alone know the steps taken to cross over each dim acres edge. Travel with them to a gritstone ledge, where the heath plunges dale deep, there above the tall treetops a bright sky will rise up to meet you.