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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.

 

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* 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

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