Springtime At The Strid Poem by C Richard Miles

Following the footpath winding through the frosty farmer’s field,
Shunning all the new-born lambs, which flocked and sheltered in the fold,
As I clambered over slanting stiles, the blustery wind grew cold,
Chilling dainty daffodils which chortling children pulled and culled,
Innocently making queenly crowns to wreathe their flaxen hair.
Rowdily they ran along the path so I could hardly hear
Sounds of rushing, gushing River Wharfe constricted at the Strid.
As I neared the visitor’s viewing point, I strode with surer stride.

Wild the raging, tearing torrents roared in narrow, confined bed
Ringed by rugged, limestone rocks whose deadly dangers dire still bode
For reckless, rash, unwitting ramblers who try to jump the gap
Ignorant of hidden horrors under jagged jaws that gape
Luring, leering wide and welcoming into the depths so deep,
Tempting untold naïve daytrippers to try to take a dip.
Sadly several stories still get told of spectators who trip
Falling fatally into the waiting water’s grasping trap.

In that pleasant, picture-postcard place where snowdrops shine so fair
I, in solemn silence, sauntered on, my mind quite calm and far
From those terrors, looking at the sight of tranquil, tender flowers
Blooming on the banks with soft, spring shoots which filled the forest’s floors.
Awed by nature’s new-born, bursting green, awake from winter’s sleep,
Travelling on, I took the twisting route back up the steepening slope,
Thinking of the landscape’s loveliness. Soft snow began to fall,
Covering, with crystal comeliness, each distant dale and fell.

On that magic, moorland morning, as the March hares hopped and ran,
Sprinkling snow soon stopped to be replaced by sleety showers of rain.
Then, through chasing clouds, the sun appeared to cheer the sodden sheep.
Hoping for some sustenance I made my way to the tea shop
Where, revived by tasty-flavoured brew, and fresh-baked, buttered scones
I considered well my fortune to be there to view those scenes.
Wharfedale memories will echo long, though London’s streets I tread;
I will not forget that spring’s sweet wander to the surging Strid.