North­ern Pil­grim . . . .

Evergreen - - Contents Summer 2015 - Brid­get A. Pear­son

Although my three score years have passed And scat­tered far be­hind, There’s still a whis­per in my soul, A long­ing in my mind.

So I will pack my books and bags And leave the city sprawl, And I will turn my face to north, The land of grey stone wall.

Where mist like liq­uid fills the dale And creeps up val­ley side, Where sun breaks through in tat­tered rays And shad­ows drift and hide.

And I will tread a moor­land path And watch the tan­gled sheep, Where muted colours meet my eye I’ll lay me down to sleep.

And I will wake to curlew’s cry And smile up at the hill, Where flat­tened peaks and cur­dled sky Will all my vi­sion fill.

Sunset brings a calm end to the day at Loch Owske­ich in Scot­land.

And I will watch as clouds they pass, Then gaze at starry sky, And I will live a dif­fer­ent life Please God, be­fore I die.

A sheep­dog at Skel­gill in “the land of grey stone wall” at Wens­ley­dale in York­shire.

Early morn­ing mist be­gins to clear at Feizor Woods in the York­shire Dales.

A fast- flow­ing stream splashes and foams at At­ter­mire Scars near Set­tle in York­shire.

TONY ROSTRON

TOM PARKER

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