The
light falls slowly, down across the Dales,
from
Ingleborough out to Pen-y-ghent.
From
Malham Cove, through Horton, on to Dent,
the
mist hangs from the mountaintops like sails.
Where
broken trees emerge from limestone scales
we
pause awhile on our fitful descent,
to
reminisce about the hours spent
by
rocks and moor ‒ the stuff of
fireside tales.
It's
better that we travel than arrive ‒
at
least that's what I've heard some people say ‒
the
journey is the thing for which we strive,
it
strengthens us against the fading day.
Our
voyage goes full circle in the gloam
and
leads to where we started ‒
back at home.
RJT
No comments:
Post a Comment