MOORLAND REQUIEM. 

Scatter me,
Scatter me.

When I gone,
 Gone,

Over the Purple heather,
Where I may smell the fragrance,
Of your Moorland air,
Rooted in precious Ores,
From which we both descended,
Conceived in half light of winter,
Over fields of Granite,
Then stream wash over me,
My wind blown,
Purple blown ,
Long blown,
Sister you will be there,
Be there,

Guarding, guiding, chastising,
Till Heaven's Angelic fragrances blown,

Claims me for its own,
Sending me higher,
Than this Theatre of Dreams
Dreams,
Dreams!