Companion piece to ‘A river trout in Wharfedale’
Burnsall, a village in God’s own County of Yorkshire. These words ‘appeared’ in my mind as I sat by the river.
It takes your breath, those sharp camera shutter glimpses of the valley floor,
as down you go looking right, through branch framed windows under the tor,
all bathed in the northern light.
This is God’s land, here all the city’s neon and concrete blight has no place,
instead there is only peace,a verdant serene contrast to man’s urban disgrace,
a haven when labours cease.
There is much wonder here, stately cloud shadows adjusting shades of green,
houses of Dale married stone, river secrets hidden by a dancing gloss sheen,
the towering heather tinged throne.
Perhaps it’s some potion, lying in the meadows or sown upon the breeze,
an Elixir from nature born, that softly renders body and mind at ease,
as the burdens we carry are shorn.