Thyme on Moor

There, in the open space of 'Moor,
as ponies run wild across the flats and Tors,    
where women go to lose their souls and burdens,  
I catch sight of you  
   
burning, blinding ball of blazing sunrise  
swallowing me up, promising some days, more days  
after these days of being the Mother first, a woman second,  
who will I be then, I wonder, in my Winter, cronedom, where will I lay my head?  
   
Deep, in dense woodland, I am drawn,  
as if in the unseen sinnin' is less sinnin', thinkin' less thinkin', feeling less feeling.  
I am less fragile beyond. I bathe my ankles in the river,  
drink from it - thankful of kindness.  
   
Kindness comes in rest now, by moonlight, stretched across beds of ferns.
I wonder if my wants will ever have time to wander again  
or if they are bound now, blood and bone and spirit to her  
and whatever makes her happy will naturally engage me to endure.  
   
I know of worn down childhoods,    
and so, I am sure, do you.  
If the Moor is where I leave my demons
where, my love, do you?