O noble, enigmatic Tor,
robed in rumours of mystic mischief.
Has the friction of new centuries
worn thin your ancient spell?
Does your silhouette still impress the skies
in ways that tar-etched city grids cannot?
Are you really more sacred now than the
poppy strewn cenotaph?
And how can your static loneliness
fill the earth beneath with currents of electric soul
that are not eclipsed in an instant by playground voices,
chanting and dancing in primal chorus.
What do you know of enchantment Tor,
aloof from human vice and virtue,
guarded from the dark arts of urban industry?
Are you perhaps a mere folly Tor,
To the dream of a transcendent elsewhere?
