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By Josie Whitehead

That Heaven-Felt Still

Come, follow to these quiet moors
     Where larks frequent the skies;
Where peace grows in abundance 
     And the soaring buzzard flies.

Walk quietly to a secret haunt,
     Where, beneath a glimmering moon,
The mad March hares frolic and leap
     All through the month of June.


Listen!  Hear the waterfalls
    That leap rock-studded hills
And trickle through a wooded glen
     By way of tiny *ghylls. 
Wild garlic‘s smell pervades the air
     From in its wooded home,
And here, beneath the damp, dark peat
     Its roots forever roam. 

The bluebells hang their tiny heads
     Within the woodland shade;
There's  even music in the air
     In this bee-humming glade.

The cuckoo calls each year in spring
     From nearby Hebers Ghyll,
Whilst heather’s tiny purple bells,
      Clothe August’s Yorkshire hills.

Mankind can war with all his might;
     Destroy our world and kill,
But here, away from humankind,
     You’ll find that heaven-felt still.

Copyright on all my poems






* Gill or (ghyll - often spelt like this in Yorkshire) =  
1. a narrow stream; rivulet
2. a wooded ravine
3. (Use a capital when part of place name): a deep natural hole in rock; pothole.   Place name:  Gaping Gill or, above, Hebers Ghyll

For those who live in Ilkley  or the Bradford area, you'll find five books containing 400 of my poems in the Ilkley Library, Children's Section.  This poem refers to Ilkley Moor, near to my home.  Josie 

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