A Misty Day On Cringle Moor Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

'Twas a misty day on Cringle Moor
Like smoke it clung to sloping dale,
It chilled the still November air
And clenched each frozen breath,
The tears of dew had gathered on
The coarse and weary heathered brows,
For violet paths of autumn days
Now wore a veil of death.

I heard the Leven's waters pass
So sweet the sound that rose above,
And yet I wished it was her voice
To soothe my aching soul,
Each silken strain like music played
Within my heart a symphony,
But still it bled in sadness
As the silver mist did roll.

Across the slopes through valleys brown
Where winter gripped the sleeping land,
And cloaked the tall and rugged peaks
In solemn shades of grey,
My hopes were lost within that cloud
That merged as one with earth and sky,
My longing eyes to blind to see
The track that led my way.

'Twas a misty day on Cringle Moor
I could not hear my lover's cry,
For drowned within the silence
Of that cold deserted place,
Where deathly shrouds and blankets wrapped
The barren fields in uniform,
I tried in vain to find her
Yet her steps I could not trace.


Copyright. Andrew Blakemore 2009