Egglestone Abbey

Leaving the Roman road by Rokeby

The lane winds and slides above the glide twisting Tees,

Weaves, threads and drifts between the lambing fields,

Sweeps up a rise against the flow of a falling stream

And curls asleep in gravel

Bearded by April grass.

Everything speaks of sleep here:

The wind snores through the arches

And pigeons corbel the walls with their slumberous song.

High on the hill

The bright palaces gaze big business like

Above the ruins

To the smoky haze of Arkengarthdale.

But here below

In the sheep-cropped cloisters

By the murmuring waters

A dream of drowsy tinklings

Lulls the shimmered air