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Steve Tilston
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Pennine Spring
All of you who walk the chain.
Must learn to love the wind and rain.
Dare to call these mountains friends.
Know the way the backbone bends
How the Welkin grips the soul.
Stirs some blessed rigmarole.
where the peaks and waterfalls.
Dwarf all man-made mansion halls
Veterans and pilgrims mark the chosen way.
Lengthening but loyal shadows follow.
Soon summer will embrace the day.
Soon across the heather skims the swallow.
The murmur of the pots and gills.
That honeycomb, the limestone hills
Over Malham's cove and tarn.
Ancient herdsman's pens and barns
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Ah these pathways mark a trail,
Way beyond the Dove and Swale.
Ghostly legions weave and spin.
Brigantes and Jackobin.
Is that woodsmoke from a tavern chimney rise?
A welcome light a flickering from a window?
Turn westward face the salmon skies.
It could be a sunny day tomorrow.
A weathered tongue scolds and scores.
Comes keening up the valley floor.
Past the Withen's ruined bones.
And wuthering erodes the stones.
Is that music wafting from an open door?
The chink of many flowing bowls and laughter?
Scrape the mud and weave across the floor.
Banish aches and pains to stumble after.
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