A track, just perceptible from afar,

Disappears close up; some trodden grass here,

Occasionally a boot print. We follow

This meagre path over the wide moor,

On a compass bearing, by the bog

Cotton, and the tussocky moor-grass, and heather.

What is there apart from this wet slog?

There are no curlews crying out, no grouse,

Nothing moves – there’s only heath and rock.

So, we keep on walking, until a cross

Comes into view, then a cairn, then a menhir;

A stone presence, rising from the peat and moss.

Standing tall, a pillar of warm black ice,

Smooth to touch, lichen coated, always wet;

Soaked by rains, and chilled by moorland mists.

The 2001 monolith: dark granite.

Then another stone, and another, and another …

Who put these here? Beings from a different planet?

And have you been here? Did you discover

These lost long-stones? I think I will ask you –

Did you trudge across this featureless moor?

You have been to places like this, I know,

But did you visit these monuments?

Or did you dream your Dartmoor stones.

Rock aligned with rock, to orientate

With the stars and winter solstice sun –

A site for druidic sacrifices.

I will tell you where we walked: we began

By the ruins of Drizzlecombe farm,

Then climbed Combshead Tor, and by a large cairn,

Past the pool which isn’t always there,

By the stone circle, and the long stone row,

And on towards the low ridge with the scars

Of the tin workings. On again to follow

A faint trail (or maybe a sheep-track)

Over the blank moor, skirting the hollows

Of Foxtor Mires, to a cross by a leat.

From here, we could see Nun’s Cross and the farm;

A rectangle of green, with a single tree.

And I remembered, this is near Childe’s Tomb.

Not a child’s tomb, but a man called Childe –

A rich hunter, who got lost in a snowstorm.

It is said that the blizzard was so wild

That his horse collapsed, exhausted, and died.

It sounds improbable, but they say he slit

open his horse to get shelter inside.

The storm raged, and he left a note to say,

Whoever finds his body and provides

A good burial will inherit all his money.

This news spread fast, and the ensuing race

Was won by the monks of Tavistock Abbey.

They mounted a cross, here, at his burial place.

Did you know that story? Do you think it’s true? 

We walk on, by bleached, broken stems, retracing,

Stone by stone, step by step, déjà vu,

Like we have been here before, on these trails,

But this time I cannot tell you

and you can’t reply, with one of your long tales.