Thinking of you as I walked on the moor.
Through the bright yellow gorse, where the wild swaying grasses
bend to the whisper of the wind.
Rushing here, dashing there, following scents everywhere.
That was you dear Brock, that was you my friend.
Shaggy wool sheep stand in your way. I called and you froze.
Wild ponies and foals abounded but you stood still
a look of perplexity upon your sweet face – running here, searching there
nose to the ground everywhere.
That was you dear Brock, that was you my friend.
Gentle rain and we both got wet, but we didn’t care a jot and yet!
It’s part of life and we soldiered on not a care in the world, exploring here
discovering there, head to the future everywhere.
That was you dear Brock. That was you my friend.
Dartmoor