When the winter wind comes blasting earth from the Charnwood rocks,
Sapping the will of all who pass that way,
Upon the tors the rowans shall remain.
When springtime rain in riotous rivers pours down upon the heights,
When buds are full and every field is bursting with new life.
Upon the tors the rowans little change.
The summer sun beats on the stones and heats them to the core,
Drying up the highlands and turning grass to straw.
Upon the tors the rowans need no shade.
And in the autumn, when nights draw in,
When food grows scarce upon the hills
Upon the tors are rowan berries bright,
Reminding us all of what hope looks like.
Constantine is a 45 year old autistic writer and father of two. https://m.facebook.com/nobodyrtrue/