Her Special Place

[billy]

yeah i meant ducks (honestly) the ones with the dark blue heads. though i could have meant swans, geese. though swans arent something you see a lot of on the moors

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you can use the evergreen how you wish

Oh, and I think you should know that mercurial doesn't mean like mercury!
Bugger...pedantic again! Sorry
Best,
tectak

mercurial, quick to change or temperamental, it's the moors; weather changes, sometimes in an instant

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I actually like this version more overall:
A purple ocean over rolling hills;
that broad expanse of England's heathered spine
it held us captive, two Saturday ramblers.
Hiker's crooks, and boots ready to stride

the granite altar. Spread throughout the moor
it was our solace, our place of worship.
We'd watch as tired waterfowl alit
on mirrored planes of silver painted ponds.

A thousand threads of white as ripples pushed
across a canvass of Picasso blue.
The Kestrels hovered hard against the wind and
waited on the wing before they dove.
Problem with this and other edit is that the poem doesn't seem to do much of claiming its own space. It's a nice little travel piece. I like travel pieces when they sparkle, which means you really would have to up the quality of description to a more mesmerizing level.

Or this piece could do a better job of invoking inner space. Worship and solace just isn't enough at that level. At this point, it really depends upon what you want to do with this.

Personally I'd opt to try the latter. That being said, I actually enjoyed a lot of the phrasing in here.



This version makes me feel like I'm watching a car commercial. It has a few good images, but it's reads disjointed and without energy due to the lack of sentence structure and good verb choices.
An evergreen ocean of roiling hills;
the broad expanse of England's heathered spine.
Captive Sunday ramblers
upheld by gnarled blackthorn staffs.

Strings of limestone monoliths spread
like litter on the moor;
broken strands of time.
Tired waterfowl alighted on mercurial waters
in a demure flap of webbed feet and violent wings.

A thousand threads of white rippled
a canvas of Picasso's blue.


Kestrels hovered; heads to the wind
searching heath and sky.
Actually, looking it over, this reads as an almost completely different poem. I'd be concerned that you might workshopping this to death.

yeah, i possibly went too far with the edits and possibly edited the wrong parts thanks for taking the time to read and leave feedback, it's always appreciated :J: