The light falls slowly, down across the Dales,
from Ingleborough out to Pen-y-ghent.
From Malham Cove, through Horton, on to Dent,
the mist hangs from the mountaintops like sails.
Where broken trees emerge from limestone scales
we pause awhile on our fitful descent,
to reminisce about the hours spent
by rocks and moor ‒ the stuff of fireside tales.
It's better that we travel than arrive ‒
at least that's what I've heard some people say ‒
the journey is the thing for which we strive,
it strengthens us against the fading day.
Our voyage goes full circle in the gloam
and leads to where we started ‒ back at home.