I spied you threading your way up the narrow ghyll,
Just down there where the waters tumble over rocks on their long route down to the sea.
I watched you picking your way along the stoney path,
Stopping to rest awhile under the shade of that old, wizened tree.
I sensed that with each step of climb, up, up, onto the high moor,
Your mind opened like the land and all of your thoughts broke free.
I was amused to observe you pause now and then, looking about to take in the sights,
Knowing that you had not yet seen me.

You think this land belongs to you,
Your thoughts confirmed by the remnant workings and heaps of spoil the miners left behind.
You see evidence all around, backed up by the words on the pages of your guide,
That this remote corner of the world is here for humankind.
You sense that there are creatures here and rue the fact that they hide from view,
Wishing they’d show themselves so that you can tick them off the list you carry deep inside your mind.
You imagine how it must have been to dig into this land, with the dust, the noise, the aching limbs,
To bring out the ore enriched with the heaviest metal one can find.

And then, at last, you catch sight of me as I stand waiting patiently beside the stream.
I thought you’d never notice, so deeply did you dream.
You stop and, stretching out one arm, guide your companion’s sight,
You speak in hushed voices, moving slowly so as not to create fright.

I shift my weight a little and turn my head to best present myself to you,
For there have been many others who have stopped to see this profile view.
And trust me, I know what to do.

Stick-like legs, beneath my plump grey body, surprisingly large when seen close by,
Arching neck, dagger bill, the crown of feathers that adorns my head,
all of this can make you sigh.
And, of course, I know only too well, that what you really want is to see me fly.

So, I rouse myself fully, unfurl my mighty wings
And with three swift beats I am up and away,
Hammering the air as I move along the stream until,
Tantalisingly out of sight, I find another spot to stay.

Twice more I lead you on our little dance.
I fly upstream and you advance.

You are thinking that there must be only meagre pickings in such a small and insignificant stream as this,
And that to sustain so large a body I must have to spend an age to find a useful meal from tiny fish,
And that to live here as I do must be so hard and pose a lot of risk,
But there are things that you don’t realise, sights that you have missed.

This is the miners’ land no more, and you are only passing through,
And things are not exactly as they seem,
For the land you see around you, all the hills, the rocks, the fields, the walls,
And each and every one of the countless little streams,
Has a mighty ruler who has chosen to be at its helm,
And you, my passing admirer?
You are welcome in my realm.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

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About this poem: This poem was inspired by the sights experienced and thoughts that occurred during a wonderful walk while on our summer holiday in Ilkley, Yorkshire. The route took us along the valley of the River Wharfe and then north for lunch at The Old School Tearoom [highly recommended] in the village of Hebden. From there we slowly made our way up Hebden Ghyll, a narrow valley that was once the location for extensive lead-mining activities. As the terrain opened up to the expansive higher moorland I saw a heron standing at the side of the small stream than ran down the ghyll. We stood and watched it for a few moments and I commented that with the stream being so narrow it must offer slim pickings and that it must be hard for such a large bird to sustain itself there. Then, of course, the heron did what herons always do…