High on the breeze, patchwork like a frieze;

green, brown and red, transmuting.

The landscape always shifting,

But on the wind, now something feels different.

Angrier moods, absolute, resistant;

bluster in my wings, pungent and greased.

Icky to my feathers, smoke upwards puffing,

But like a hydrant as I go, swooping, flushing.

Little wizard they named me;

as I soared above the moors.

In a

fierce streaking rufous

low over heather

glider flushy clumping

tail chase.

If I am the magician, then

the moor is my domain;

Shadowy and small, alongside Arthur,

All too frail and in refrain.