POETRY: Blackstone Edge

by Rod Butterworth, Rochdale

From Blackstone Edge
On the Pennine Chain,
Where the ‘white house’ pub
Stands guard in the rain,
To the north and south,
To the east and the west,
There’s a wildness
In the rough terrain
That fills one’s lungs
With a powerful zest.
Prevailing winds
Lay the moor grass low
Over peat laid down
In the long ago,
Bands of gritstone
Scowl at the sky,
And the Merlin hunts
Where the heathers grow,
But is rarely seen
By you or I.
Apart from the sound
Of passing car,
Or the humming wind
That was born afar,
The tread of your foot
On the tracks of the sheep
Or the lapping of water
From the reservoir
Are the Moorlands sounds
For your memory to keep.