Come, follow to these quiet moors
Where larks frequent the skies;
Where peace grows in abundance
And the soaring buzzard flies.
Walk quietly to a secret haunt,
Where, beneath a glimmering moon,
The mad March hares frolic and leap
All through the month of June.
Listen! Hear the waterfalls
That leap rock-studded hills
And trickle through a wooded glen
By way of tiny *ghylls.
Wild garlic‘s smell pervades the air
From in its wooded home,
And here, beneath the damp, dark peat
Its roots forever roam.
The bluebells hang their tiny heads
Within the woodland shade;
There's even music in the air
In this bee-humming glade.
The cuckoo calls each year in spring
From nearby Hebers Ghyll,
Whilst heather’s tiny purple bells,
Clothe August’s Yorkshire hills.
Mankind can war with all his might;
Destroy our world and kill,
But here, away from humankind,
You’ll find that heaven-felt still.
Copyright on all my poems
* Gill or (ghyll - often spelt like this in Yorkshire) =
1. a narrow stream; rivulet
2. a wooded ravine
3. (Use a capital when part of place name): a deep natural hole in rock; pothole. Place name: Gaping Gill or, above, Hebers Ghyll
For those who live in Ilkley or the Bradford area, you'll find five books containing 400 of my poems in the Ilkley Library, Children's Section. This poem refers to Ilkley Moor, near to my home. Josie