On the moorland where we would walk, I go on quiet days
And I see you in my memory when the world is far away
And when I see you you're always walking
In the watery sun of March
In the morning near the woodland
When the frost was on the larch
When in long hot days we'd wend our way
Through heather burnt and sparse
With the lark's sweet song even then I longed
For when the frost was on the larch
And then the crying of the homing rooks became the music for our walks,
White plumes of breath as the nights drew in,
Coming home with lamps at dark
The swish of boots in snowy grass, a distant foxes bark.
I still smell the earth, the moss and dirt
See the bonfire's leaping sparks.
All these memories are with me still such a sweeetness to impart
But none so sweet or so complete
As when the frost was on the larch