SCENES FROM THE NORTH BY DYLAN SQUIRES
I We wrestle wind of Irish Sea Atop red raw sandstone, And gusts that wail like ghostly gales, A far, far cry from home. Grass purls, The fading coastline hurls Past tales, Crashing from mouths of caves. All of it now a memory, Washed out and veiled by waves.
III Scampering swift over loose stone, Falling fast from above, With feet that weave over water, Twisting towards the Dove. Alive, A sweet and sticky hive. Shorter Steps, the path leads up high, As summer sun gives one last groan, Waking a moonlit sky.
II In valleys hollowed by glaciers We walk where ages passed. Two faint silhouettes slip and lurch On the fells that outlast. Giants Turn men to marching ants, Who search For tarn ‘tween crag and rigg, A sanctum in Mother Nature’s Embrace, sweet as a fig.
IV The fells, in Kronos’s shadow, Down by the reservoir, Where the rocky trail tries to hold Onto what still is our Warm heart, Beating for lakes we part. But bold In view, the Yorkshire dales, Over which we trav’lers now go, Rolling on with hay bales. 17