Grumbling beck marches through a village in the Dales,
Moving to meet its meandering Master,
Blending, foaming, chaotic through the Falls,
Where the salmon rise as the water sprints faster.
Above the village, a crooked track
Confined by drystone, lichened blocks
Climbs ever loftier, toward the Fell
'Twixt wandering wethers and snow-dusted rocks.
Through crumbling gate and a clatter of latch,
On gentler sward, yet... a rumble close by,
For as water falls, eternal tumble,
The Swallies scramble and the jackdaws fly.
Down earthen steps, some frictionless peril,
To safety in the arboreal Fault;
Chundering water flees from the Force,
Its path a cracked route that time has wrought.
Bramblings bustle in the bristling bushes,
A dipper bobs below the crashing flows,
A small moth, grey, flits from frond to tendril,
And on supine logs, moss tufted grows.
A faerie glen, glowering down on Stainforth,
Some eldritch spot, where older gods bicker
In convulsive spasm; high in the hills,
The thund'rous beck moves briefly quicker.
This timeless tableau creates the scene
Where transient life flickers and sways
And one day ends; yet the Catrigg chasm
Will reckon in eons its roving days.
Prince Vulpine 20/01/26
