Dalton-Le-Dale

Dalton-Le-Dale

There are so many tales to be told

Even here in this field

What does it mean to lie fallow

When I can hear the rattle of sabres

The clash of iron and steel

The smell of blood and cordite.

Cromwell this way did pass

The old Church in the dale

Hidden behind the trees

Survives him still.

It is a warm accompaniment

To a gentle reminiscence

Old stone gravestones

Age worn

Weather torn

Bring a tumble of comfort

A quiet timelessness

Almost invisible

In the dappled shade of a northern afternoon.

Missed by Cromwell

And missed by many since

There is no missing

The Wildflowers, a profusion

Of Birdsfoot and Cornflower

Daisies yellow and white,

Bluebells sprout up around my feet

Eager to please,

Whispering their thanks

For another fine day.

A welcome peace

Gathered here

An ancient circle

In a new model world

An army of modernity

Marching in time

To the pace of change.

Bowing their heads

Doffing their caps

To the dead,

Following a tradition

In respectful reflection

A timeless quietude.

The clamour of progress

The clash of its disarray

Skirting the dale

Leaving the secret of this idyll

To be forgot

In isolated splendour,

An anachronistic adjunct

To the passage of life.