I crossed the moor one murky morning.
It looked like a partially painted page:
grey-white with just a little green grass at the base,
but instead of gradually filling with colour it grew greyer...greyer,
and I was soon wandering in a blank canvas world.
The fog smelt foul like burnt suede in a boiled-dry pan
and sounds of ponies, cattle and sheep were muffled, muted.
As I slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees
it seemed I stood in a circle:
a ring of grass in the greyness was all I could see.
Myths came to mind and I imagined a fairy ring.
Fantasy turned to fear when I realised I was lost...
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.