This moor is mine.
Or, at least, I pretend
I own the peat that gives
gently under my feet.

That dark brown
pool of water, acid
and reed-edged.
A monster might lie

just under the surface,
eyes half-closed, gills
palpating, my monster,
my pool.

These furred fells
rise, one behind the other.
Their curved flanks
breathe for me.

Spitler’s Edge,
Will Narr Hill,
Noon Hill,
Rivington Pike.

My skylarks
flirt with the sun,
throats open, sing
a lemon-sherbet song.

Bog cotton rags
flutter. My bouquet.
Pinpricks of light
on the dark.

My ancient limestone
ribs rise up
through thin skin,
rain mapped.

At last, Great Hill.
My long, slow climb
to sky-reaching
cairn of stones.

Liz Byrne was born and grew up in Dublin. She now lives on the edge of the West Pennine Moors. She worked as a clinical psychologist in the NHS until her retirement.

She was shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize, 2019 and was highly commended in the Artlyst: Art to Poetry Competition, 2020. Her poetry appears in The Curlew, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, Agenda and Butcher’s Dog.