"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The soft ground of home, dark and kind
upon this enormous mound
and in this moss and heather, our northern souls we find
to its roots, its grass, its whispers bound.
A wilderness from moor to moor
blanketed all in a wildflower snow
it is you outside we see as poor – sweet ones.
For in a winters darkness, a northern heart will glow.
Walk here in hottest beating sun
through fields upon fields to a cool dark wood
as if in gold our barley spun,
and trees who for a hundred years have stood.
True north you’ll find in quiet small towns
whose streams and becks and village greens
are decorated with their bluebell crowns
Who stand tall above the rest like queens.
In a colder christmas time
we sit and warm our hands by fires
rain-battered and less sublime
all hiding out in dark stoned shires
this wettened land you’ll think little of
though our flowers lie in wait for spring
those snowdrops emerge like a white rock dove
as well as warmer weather it will bring
the moors their purple covering.