Alone on Brimham Moor on a wet weekday,
its weird rocks shape shifting out of the grey,
stacking themselves together in impossible ways –
erosion sculpting gritstone as if it were clay.
I walk the winding tracks my feet have grown to love
as the Eagle and Sphynx watch me from above,
silent witnesses to wanderings of countless crowds
dwarfed by their majesty, left collectively wowed.
No wonder the Georgians pronounced these Druid’s stones,
unaware the credit belonged to River alone
as she first carved her path down through the valley below,
creating Nidderdale as her for-millennia-long home.