A long time ago
The glacier came cruising down Brown Beck,
Tore the flanks of Slipstone Crags,
And let the erratic story of its slide
Scatter and scar the collier’s dale.
And some time later,
Some neolithic poets paused
To chip and peck these patterns, grey on grey,
To leave a message no-one understands.
And still later
Foresters came to hedge the hill with pines
And, seeing the stone
Where the plan said a path should be,
They drilled and prepared to blast.
But something changed their minds
And stayed their hands.
Now in the rains and scouring wind
And gentle sun and autumn mist
It lies there still,
Holding its secret safe to itself,
And, in line and curve and shadow,
Telling the oldest tale in Colsterdale.