Northern Pilgrim . . . .
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.