Lanercost Poem by Paul Reed

At an end, our ragged journey through
The hustling, excited crowd
But fate had it we would come to you
And with your serenity be endowed;

Where hands of masons, chilled by moorland air,
Now long dead, but having left their mark
Through their empty windows of sightless stare
And ghostly shadows in the dark;

Seven hundred years later
Our longing eyes drift over the fields
The beauty of the views cater
To the love that our heart yields;

These worn stones wear the ages' grime
But fashioned by trusting skills
Still thread through the tunnel of time
To cure our modern ills;

And the sheep graze on, unknowing
Of the dramas and sorrows past
The winds over the moor still blowing
Their sonorous and mournful blast.