Ageless moor
You beckon me
To discover the secrets
Of your ancient stones.
Laid in times immemorial,
Clues from a long forgotten enigma.
The call of the Curlew in spring,
Wavering and lilting on high,
To disappear into long folds of heather,
A ghostly spirit from the sky.
Cradled in your majestic hills
A small white house;
With sparkling waters,
Cold, pure and clear.
The mecca of pilgrims,
Seeking solitude, peace and rest.
A playground now for young and old,
In search of something they may never find.
The Grouse cries out, “gobak, gobak.”
It is well to heed the sentinel’s warning,
For few have mastered your icy hold.
As the cold, damp mists settle over you craggy head,
‘neath which Roman legions and Rupert trod,
You keep your mysteries you ageless, quiet moor.
Will man ever solve the puzzle of your ancient stones.
Frazer Irwin
©1982
The above poem was inspired by and written at White Wells in the early eighties. The first verse may be found on a brass plaque dedicated to volunteers past, present and future, on an Oak bench overlooking the Darwin Gardens Millennium Maze, Ilkley.
The Yorkshire Dales are known throughout the world for their virtually unspoilt landscapes. A few hundred miles north however things are quite different and are set to get worse. Scotland can say good by to all this if The People don't come to their senses and fast. It was a country lad who saw the King's New Clothes for what they were. Please, I beg you, follow the country lads example before it's too late. Before the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond are covered with wind turbines.
