"dales" poems
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
7.2k
On the bank of a rushing brook
I sat for hours watching its course.
Peered into the clear gurgling mass
That cascaded down from a mountainous source
Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips
It babbles downhill night and day
Rolling and gliding through plains and dales
It winds its way to the wider bay.
Dipping my fingers in its icy chill
How my hand got repelled as from a shock!
In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze,
I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock-
All floating in queer, fanciful shapes,
Shuddering, trembling and standing still
And the fishes leaving zigzag trails,
Swishing and swimming in the winding rill.
As I quietly watched her speedy flight
With her ***** rising in mournful heaves,
In my ears fell her whispering soft
Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves
I hardly knew the time speeding by
Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight
Or the Sun moving to the west end side
And the Sky reddening at his sight
As the brook thus continued her headlong ride
To be mingled finally with the ocean wide
I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride
To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Oh, my Father in Heaven
Guarding me from all perils and trials
And sets my heart free of all clutter
For you, my songs of praise, I reserve
All my life, I shall sing
Without fail, in bloom or gloom
On every unfolding day
Through months and years
Till death and beyond
Let my songs sail across the skies
And with the chorus of the heavenly band, unite
Oh, the benevolent Lord of all creation
Custodian of all wealth
Contriver of birth and death
The Master Crafts man
Everything is your handiwork.
The lofty mounts
Veiled in misty snow
The verdant dales
Lush and still
The fathomless deep
Where mysteries peep
All the flowers
That bloom and wither
All things
Bright and beautiful
Everything, above and below
In all,
Let me behold thy grace
And sing Thee praise!
Oh! Redeemer of Mankind
Guide me through the dark
Guard my steps where dangers lurk
Hold my hand
And never loosen your grip
Make me face the light
Illumine me with wisdom serene
And fill me with love divine;
So that you be glorified
Here, on Earth
And in Heaven be!
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
*This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******
How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.
But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.
What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.
For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.
How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******** Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.
But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.
'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
*(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.
It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.
O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
someone out in cyber-land
might just be
copying a poem which they'll
attribute to their own tee
unscrupulous replicators
have no qualms
on flagrantly stealing the lines
from genuine arms
when they take a fancy
to your brilliance of verse
they'll naff off with all or part of it
and stow it within their purse
piracy is rife around
online writing dales and dells
it's the pilfering of an authentic
author's heart and soul bells
they say that imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery
but an alternate opinion
would say plagiarists are bereft
of an original wordage battery
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
And what have ye there i' the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your meads, and I love your flowers,
And I love your junkets mainly,
But 'hind the door, I love kissing more,
O look not so disdainly!
I love your hills, and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating;
But O, on the heather to lie together,
With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,
Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow,
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
3.4k
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Through the sunlit valley they dance and sing
smiling with constant purity in the arms of spring
in the dales, new born lambs are bleating
daffodils push up to the sun, kindly beating
The buttercup pixies start to find worm holes
to pop there little seeds in threes into
then by night and day they watch the seedlings grow
underneath the shelter of a nearby toadstool
Then at six in the morning
when most folks are yawning
they gather their red hats as a team
and skip to the nearby crystal stream
Then with hats in hand scoop up the water
no more then just over a quarter
then bound back to water their seedlings
sweetly fastidious and tending with feeling
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
3k
Slowly it slides on sub zero waters
trying to find a pathway to the sea
sheet of pure blue and heaven white
lumbers discreetly for aquiline is quite
From the top of the world
frozen fingers reach down
claws frantic on solid ground
No religion no sage
no saviour just age
and the relentless pull of gravity
will take it from mountain to the sea
This sculptress of valleys and dales
and fjords that can be seen for miles
travels without sound
onward bound
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites as dawn alights and daytime's crystalline.
A migrant feeds on rotting seeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
*Stellar spirit, fearless flier to high skies, your wings are gifts of freedom,
your florid songs, tug at my heart as much as those plumage,
your elan, though subdued a bit by harsh weather, takes new shoots,
never in disquiet, indomitable, your inner lamp, now burns with camphor light.
I see you fly above the storm clouds, singing anthem of your soul,
spectacular, in clear weather, cheered by your dear ones near,
the hillsides, valleys and dales resound with your dulcet tunes.*
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Let me inspire you to go higher:
Lost among the stars.
Our universe glitters, spread across the sky.
The world keeps turning,
Resplendent with hills and mountains,
Dales and plains.
Continents surrounded with seas and oceans
And clothed by grass and trees.
Mother Earth is blessed with flora and fauna:
Sentient beings of every shape and size,
From mighty whales and elephants,
Through furry friends like dogs and cats,
Tall giraffes, slithery snails, right down
To scattering ants and pesky flies.
Smell that fresh sea breeze,
Hear those rolling waves,
Screams of gulls
And twittering sparrows.
Feel the warm moist air
Of an Indian Summer.
Be mindful of all that is around,
Yet let imagination wonder,
For out there
There is more
So much more.
Dark Monsters of The Id
Are out there too,
We all know that.
But Life in all its splendour
And determination
Is there for all to see.
Oh to live forever with such things.
Paul Butters
© PB 16\10\2018.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Inflow of confetti, brings happiness and fun
Newly wed romance in the November sun
From the valley of dreams, mid the hills and dales
Azure the sky and green the vales
Tantalizing melodies in the afternoon air
Unaware of love lingering everywhere
Against the backdrop of a cloudless sky
The snow capped mountain stands so high
Infatuation or love? A beautiful sight
Oblivious of day turning into night
Nostalgia enters, and music plays in the moonlight.
© Hazel
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:42 AM UTC
Loosing gravity, I hovered above,
The fields and woods, hills and dales,
Egrets and cranes sensing a competetor
Near gave a chase, that was nice though.
'Just a metaphor that means a search
For beauty and lasting meaning' I heard,
Who said it; unknown commentator viewing
Every movement, each moment, of universe!
What a mystery, I thought for a moment,
Not the 'I' before, but one that is aggragated,
Above the narrow limits of me,my and mine,
The cranes and herons keeping me company
Had bid goodbye, I saw palms wave hands.
Feeling comfortable with the new fecility
I flew high easy, couldn't find where I end
And the multiverse of wonders takes me over
"Aĺl I thought of me was as a visitor to this
Island of time and space, part of a whole,
But I have my sweetheart close to my heart
Near and dear, friends all over the world
Many of us never met but neighbours of
My heart, I hear them from afar and their
Heartbeat I felt mine; was an adventure this,
Love prompted, a lilting poem in progress,
Now a flow with the wind circling universe
I am ecstacy itself, time is the essence in this
Tale, told by many eyes" whispered I to
My invisible companions, winging with me.
And loomed large in my being my beloved
Moon with whom I fell madly in love in an
Age of unreason and wild infatuation.
She felt compelled to hold me close to her
***** and kissed my sweaty brows gently
A moment of oblivion, now I am one with
The sprit of universe, in thought and deed
When being becomes nothingness, bliss!
The starry nights, embellished in darkness
And light is my domain till eternity, I have
No loss or gain, what 'I was' cherished is not
Taken from me a bit, in this wingless flight
The stars, a billions lighted souls dancing
In time line far near and eternal began
To hum a celestial tune that becomes all,
That makes the universe, it moves in waves
Holds all together with love and compassion
All the rest are just tales,elements create
You and I, all the rest are myths illusory
Apparition of one and only music eternal.
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.
The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.
Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.
The Keeshond
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.
If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.
The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Where have all the Juliet’s gone.
The princess' to rescue, the maids to save.
A woman’s gift use to be so more defined.
As was the part I had to play.
Not that I was a very good actor.
Was never much of a factor on the main stage?
If I could go back to the days of Arthur, when chivalry was alive.
Joust with evil princes and slay fire breathing dragons
to ride, on an steed through the meadows and dales.
Listening to minstrels sing my story accompanied by a lyre.
Guinevere wouldn't run from this mans passion.
Exalibur would be pulled from the stone.
Alas I live in the technology age the dark ones are well past gone.
What is good for only some, never ever lasts.
I still have my pen which lets me sit and fret
and lament for a sweet Juliet.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
oh, rising sun on east horizon,
shine your light through purple hues;
sunbeam fingers reaching long,
spreading warmth ‘cross mountains blue.
awake, oh towering pine majestic,
for deep below your roots flows pure
crystal liquid falls in dance,
fills each pool with nature's mirror.
this my Oregon, i call her home,
where skies of grey and winter long
chills milder souls to the bone,
yet hardy stock from which i come
know her best, still to be sung.
her rocky crags where eagles soar,
her mountain lakes, her breaking shores,
her rapid’s ripple, current strong,
her open skies and painted rocks,
from each she springs alive with flame,
floral tapestry, her fields ablaze,
here streams cascade through canyons tall,
tumbling long in waterfall,
through rock and mountain, a gorge cut deep,
a bridge to history, the gods they speak (1
a people weary, journey long,
struggling forward they sang their song.
first the solo, small band of men
discovery's chorus, brave brethren; (2
a choir growing, families joined,
came for land, they stayed for joy
by beauty smitten, they wrote her lore. (3
today her wonder, her majesty
sings to her young, *“come, walk with me,
come taste my bounty from forests green,
from lakes, from streams, from ocean deep,
from waving fields of amber grains,
abundant yields, endure my rains.,
come sip my wines, my vineyards flow,
come drink my waters, winter’s snow,
drawn from my wells, my streams below,
my plains and valleys, my hills and dales,
i offer richness within my veil.
when journey’s burden becomes too great
find respite in my sunset’s slate,
my star-kissed skies they offer thee,
my arms, my breast, thy comfort be."*
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
There walks no Daphnis with his mournful song
Blinded by the vengeful nymph, whose love was unrequited
He does not wander in the hills above this place
Playing his pipe and singing of his sadness
Aphrodite can punish him no more
For he is gone to the quiet land of shadows
Taken by Hermes, herald and messenger
Of the mightiest of gods, to cross the river Styx
His soul guided by his father’s loving hand,
to Hades and the final still of time and season.
In the quartz sculpted gorge, beneath the waterfall
Naiads lithe and languorous once bathed
Alabaster skinned, in the crystal brook
Auburn ringlet tresses were shaken free
When they stepped among the mossy rocks and ferns
Their peachy cheeks flushed vital rose
Their strawberry ******* raised and glistening
Their teasing laughter that once echoed in these dales
Through verdant pastures and the bluebelled wood
Is heard no more, for they have passed into memory.
It is silent now, the Jackals are not howling
The threat of Wolves and Lions gone
This pastoral world of goatherds pining
Is but a world of dust and dreams.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Cycling past buisness girls on his way through Camden town
between towering grey buildings and tourists that frown
The lights turns to red and like a one legged man at the curb
he drifts off to a land that to some, seems absurb
Where honey-eyed tales of piglet and Pooh
are driven by toads tooting, **** **** poo
Peddling along the reeling, rolling,rambeling road some drunkard guy made
on famiular BBC air waves his voice often played
Through rich green ridings, wild moor and dales
2-50 stands the church clock that so sweetly never fails
Hatless on Ilkley, bathed and bathed in York
tea-time fancies at Harrogate, whilst watching like some Kes pearched hawk
Nodding and humming to sounds of the Brighouse and Rastric bands
and still finding time to paddle a little,
on sun drenched Gigglewick sands
Red turns to green as he wobbles and peddles away down Boris's yellow brick road
To Settel, for supper with
Raty
Mole
Badger
and Toad
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
Churning
Boisterous to me life a high powerful stormy sea will I ever see land again those peaceful
Dales the trees so deeply rooted in there canopy the swaying seems as undersea waves so softly they
Stir as at play deep valleys and hills below above aluminous sun light makes a rich glow in its tow I go
Ever so slow the sea grass moves in a musical undulating fashion the same as the grass on the plains
Colors diverse with coral markers at depths that unrest at the surface doesn’t reach the frothing foam
As it were a great goblet filled for god to drink a offering of thanks for such wonder that can be a
Complexity at once filling heights of emotional strands then instantly terrifying foreboding illustrious
Without equal so vast stretching all the bounds you have ever known by the sea blown tales that are
As voluminous as the sea itself adventure in the raw highlighted with charm by the cawing of the seagull
With the same speed they dive and climb on the surface races the dolphin the embodiment of joy and
Laughter the sea rescuers has been some of their duties to the blessing of many lost mariners in cold
Chilly waters these bubbly ones was the difference between life and death the sea does spray as with
Glory unbound in this all concluding vesture that is seamless all consuming tiring but invigorating once
The sea salt has entered your blood there is no escape its lore hypnotic unbreakable break waters will
Carry you inland by that she granted your greatest desire after she has reared her head and gave you
The Undeniable look at deaths watery jaws but when on her mercy you survive or in some fashion are
Flung on the shore you lose your emotional tiller and blubber like a baby then the manly part curses all
She Put you through you know one thing for certain never will she catch you a float but little do you
Know her winsome call withers all about so you hungrily crave the sea tossed tempest its excitement is a
Drug that a ****** has no cure for it puts robust living in your path all of your days while the timid land
Dwellers only look on in awe and admiration
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
The shires have seen it plain,
From north and south the sign returns
And beacons burn again.
Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
The dales are light between,
Because 'tis fifty years to-night
That God has saved the Queen.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers
About the soil they trod,
Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
Who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
To fields that bred them brave,
The saviours come not home to-night:
Themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
And Shropshire names are read;
And the Nile spills his overflow
Beside the Severn's dead.
We pledge in peace by farm and town
The Queen they served in war,
And fire the beacons up and down
The land they perished for.
"God save the Queen" we living sing,
From height to height 'tis heard;
And with the rest your voices ring,
Lads of the Fifty-third.
Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
Be you the men you've been,
Get you the sons your fathers got,
And God will save the Queen.
1.7k
The highest market town in the land
and
I've been there,
sat in the town square
looked down across the valley and marvelled at the peaks,
wondered how the sheep survive
so high
in Hawes.
The summer pours its Yorkshire sun on those who come to visit Hawes,
ideal for those who like to pause amidst the scenery
**** in the greenery
and just be still.
I will return to watch the seasons burn the land in colours bright
and I,
hold tight to this my dream
for I have seen
Gods handiwork
at work among the dales.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC