We met no pixies, no headless horsemen,
nor the infamous black dog
said to range the rivers and rove the bogs,
each reaffirming their mythical status.
Between the tors, we met just one resident,
who saw us coming from afar
(and likely heard the rustle of raincoats,
the faint discussion of poetry and prose),
whose gaze refused to hold as we passed.
We’ll keep to the road, you keep to the grass.
Dartmoor, UK – 2014 (said to be somewhat enchanted!)