When the Moors turn Purple
Beside Willy How on Ilkley Moor
You beckon me
To discover the secrets
Of your ancient stones.
Laid in times immemorial,
Like clues from a long
The call of the Curlew in spring,
Wavering and lilting on high,
To disappear into long folds of
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
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
Voice of the Countryside