When heather’s bloom has faded long and turned to brown When pheasant chides his bright alarm When rolling mist the valley shrouds in silent arms Once more I know this place to be my home
I heard the curlew cry today from windswept heath A plaintive call on rising wing And as I watched from ragged lines of weathered trees My heart stirred from her place to go with him
There’s not one thing I would not give to be as he To circle here in joyous flight And on these moors my life to live to simply be My spirit to go on in hill and scree
I wish that I could write a song that had no words Of beauteous things and journeys run For many is the time I’ve tried and tales begun But with beauty such as this the words won’t come
When heather’s bloom has faded long and turned to brown When pheasant chides his bright alarm When rolling mist the valley shrouds in silent arms Once more I know this place to be my home
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