To Moor, and you.

In the ineffable density of woodland, where bottle green moss envelopes rubble
from houses abandoned, there is land  
long fallen  
to the Moor and her ways.
Tree roots bind
together overlapping, breaking, suffocating.  
Fungi grows, epiphytes, bracken springs from swollen soul  
and light is gently dappled trickling on the dawn,  
cutting through leaves of oaks  
facing their next season.  
The wind sings, tits, finches.  
It is yours,  
your church before you were looking for a place,  
your space when you weren't searching for a home to feel found -  
longing  
for a soundless hollow to be lost,  
here  
in the kingdom of earth,  
you couldn't be held higher  
and I am beside you, around you. I can hide you, child,  
from a world so blue
when it swallows
yet won't embrace you
because
I'm green  
through and through.