Alone on Waskerley Moor
We have walked this way before:
Over, Waskerley Moor.
Where once ironclad trains belched loud their call:
Sulphured air in clouds of steam,
Echoed off, dry-stone walls.
Now we’re blessed with quieter days:
With iron rail, turned into trail.
Cinder raked from fires of hell,
Now falls under a whispered spell,
To crunch beneath boot trodden feet,
With only the distant bleat of sheep,
To break the silent breath of spring:
Where flowers bloom, and skylarks sing.
My memories now turn into dreams:
Reflections found in crystal streams,
Vibrant, fresh, and so loving.
I close my eyes… remembering:
We have walked this way before.
© Nigel Gatiss