(by Bryan Yorke 9th May 2012)
By Wheatsheaf, and Ashton houses fair,
I make my way to the Fairy Stair.
The Church Bells tolls to mark the hour,
From its gracious upright heavenly tower.
The stiles are slim, of limestone built,
From old Westmorland, and with a tilt.
I have to turn upon my side,
To negotiate less wide.
I can hear the birds with chorus strong,
And always led by the Blackbird song,
Along with Robin and Warbler too,
And also the dove with distant coo.
So tall and slim these upright birch,
But with that wind do sway and lurch,
Flowers are also closeby ones feet,
Like Bugle, Violet, and other treat.
And now I’ve reached my open spot,
Where to my left I see the “Knott”,
A glimmer and shimmer across the sands,
Where wanders Kent and Bela’s lands.
And just below, the Fairy Steps,
So narrow and steep to reach its depths,
I know I must not touch their sides,
If I am to see where the Fairy resides.
(Inspired by yesterday evenings walk)