When the Moors turn Purple
Beside Willy How on Ilkley Moor
ILKLEY
MOOR
Ageless
moor
You
beckon me
To
discover the secrets
Of
your ancient stones.
Laid
in times immemorial,
Like
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
Voice of the Countryside
