poetry@cheviotwalks

 

 

The Cheviot from Windy Gyle etc.JPG

 

WINDY GYLE

 

Beside this pile of stones

he died,

a Lord of long debated lands.

Four hundred years or more,

a border tryst

brought blood to stone.

 

Reivers come and go.

Incessantly the wind cries out.

 

Below these southern slopes,

a whisky still,

a tipple from a Cheviot burn.

Pebbles smoothed and turned.

 

Here Pennine walkers drag

their blistered feet,

a haul of lonely days,

a pilgrimage for half a pint.

 

Drovers pass this way.

Days of driving rain.

 

This Scottish hill on England`s spine,

where curlews call

and cold cuts to the bone.

 

And still the wind cries out.

 

 

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