A Misty Day On Cringle Moor

'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