Wounds

Up high on the Moor these beautiful little flowers blossom in a carpet of remembrance. For once, here in the wild places of the North, once there were mighty forests, gilded glades and meadows alive with colour. Hill and Dale were wild, nature wanton in its diversity, everything in balance and striving for it's moment of continuance. It must have been a thing of beauty to behold.

All that would be before man took dominion, before our forebears cleared, burnt, plowed and pillaged. Before we arrogantly claimed nature tamed.
Today we hold the land at bay, modern practice to tear out the wild, reseed with the ordinary and repeat at will. Slowly leaching the true wonder out the land, leaving it sterile, bereft, but profitable. 
And yet, here, in rampant rebellion, the land shows it remembers, it holds, it is but paused. Perhaps waiting for the time of man to pass, possibly hoping we'll learn to be but our part of the whole, thankfully though, enduring.
The old woodland flowers bloom beneath a stolen canopy, creatures thought lost can be glimpsed, that which we once made rare returns. 
In the slow turning of geological time perhaps Man is a wound that must be endured before the land can heal. 

I had a lot of time to sit and simply appreciate how beautiful here is, how much more beautiful it must once have been, and to hope that it's glory might yet return.