A mosaic of gorse, heather and grassland,

Open landscape stretching across the Bovey Basin,

A reminder of what has been lost,

Wild, open heathlands, home to endangered wildlife.

Pioneers of the last age of ice,

 First species to colonise our warmer shores,

Bright young bark mellows into silver white with age,

Slender birch trees are here to stay.

Raindrops captured from a shower of rain,

Water droplets hang like beads in the sun,

Glistening before falling down to the ground, 

Such stillness and peace is second to none.

A rare lowland heath preserved by the Trust,

A patchwork of gorse, grasses and trees,

A site of special interest and a joy to behold,

A magical place to be.

A circular route around the reserve, 

Named after a famous friend, 

The Narrow-Headed Ant, the last in the land,

Except here they have chance to expand.

In summer the heath explodes with life,

With dragonflies, damselflies, nightjars and frogs,

A great place to walk and get lost and explore,

Just you and the wildlife and nature and more.

Wide open spaces with furrows and trails,

Thin spindly trees and grasses and gorse,

Surrounded by woodland and paths through the trees,

A great place to walk and a fine place to be. 

Heathland terrain is rugged and rough,

Wet and boggy and wild and tough,

Great tufts of grass create mounds on the land,

Between pools and rivulets soaking the ground.

Dead wood piles left to rot in the ground,

Replenishing the earth and the land all around,

Haven for snails, slugs, woodlice, earwigs and worms,

Food for hedgehogs and birds, frogs, mice and toads.

The heath is surrounded by paths through the trees,

With bracken and brambles and mosses and leaves,

The sunshine shines brightly in a winter blue sky,

And the birds sing and play in the branches above.

Pathways wind through frozen ferns,

Grasses and bramble leaves dusted with frost,

Bright in the light of the winter sun,

A place for adventure, exploring and fun.

The grassy path reaches the edge of the heath,

Icy hard ground crunches under foot,

It's bracing and cold, holding breath in the air,

So precious and beautiful, wonderful and rare.

Deep green and spiky and rugged and strong,

The gorse stand up to the ice and the storms,

Glistening with crystals of clear frozen ice,

The gorse bushes shine with a shimmering light.

Pinnas aligned on the stipe of the frond,

Pinnules arranged on their thin costa stems,

Edged in the white of a flash winter frost,

Such timeless treasures from times long lost.

Shaped and moulded with curves and bends,

Circling the heath like a faithful friend,

It's a joy to be out in this wild open land,

A place to relax and be still and unwind.