Up Hawkshaw Lane

Evening walk up Hawkshaw Lane in a warm breeze. A few blackbirds perched on the lines sing the day's lullaby. It was a summer's day, a blustery and dazzling day, full of kites, cotton-grass and buttercups. Holcombe Hill cotton-grass Now there are only two of us, and we leisurely follow the lane up towards the…

Westernmost

  Of these westernmost lands My child Will you long remember Between soft folds of velvet green Paler, darker – oh winds’ fancies The silvery song of streams ? With every further step you take Towards shorter summer Its soflty spoken rhyme will fade Its call will sound thinner Yet in the deeper still waters…