When heather’s bloom has faded long and turned to brown
When pheasant chides his bright alarm
When rolling mist the valley shrouds in silent arms
Once more I know this place to be my home

I heard the curlew cry today from windswept heath
A plaintive call on rising wing
And as I watched from ragged lines of weathered trees
My heart stirred from her place to go with him

There’s not one thing I would not give to be as he
To circle here in joyous flight
And on these moors my life to live to simply be
My spirit to go on in hill and scree

I wish that I could write a song that had no words
Of beauteous things and journeys run
For many is the time I’ve tried and tales begun
But with beauty such as this the words won’t come

When heather’s bloom has faded long and turned to brown
When pheasant chides his bright alarm
When rolling mist the valley shrouds in silent arms
Once more I know this place to be my home