A collection of poetry from the Dales
A reflective poem about the quiet ending of a love that once burned brightly. Through autumn leaves, winter rooms and the hope of another dawn, it explores the courage to let go without denying what once mattered — and the possibility of finding yourself again.
A heartfelt poem celebrating more than fifty years of friendship, from childhood days in Scholes to a bond that has endured through all the changing years. A tribute to kindness, loyalty and the people we would gladly choose all over again.
What’s the longest book you’ve ever read? Probably Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. I’ve read it six or seven times, so does that count as one really long book? I love the way it brings together two… More
I wake up groaning, joints all shot,
My back’s on strike, my knees are not.
My hair’s a ghost, my gut’s appeared,
And somehow hair grows from my ears.
I used to flirt, I used to swoon,
Now I snore like a broken tune.
My kids say “sus,” I nod and grin,
Then Google what they meant again.
They tell me something’s “giving mid,”
I’ve no idea what either did.
They shout “no cap,” I check my head,
Then wonder what the hell they said.
I tried their slang — said “lit” and “bet,”
They laughed so hard, I nearly wet.
I tried some “rizz” — they cried with shame:
“Dad, please don’t ever say that again.”
Apparently I’ve got no aura now,
Though God knows when I lost it, or how.
I called their trainers “rather nice” —
Apparently that’s social suicide.
Hangovers linger like unpaid rent,
My liver wonders where youth went.
I bend too fast — a pop, a crack —
Then spend ten minutes getting back.
Romance now’s a quieter affair:
Netflix, tea, my favourite chair.
No clubs, no taxis home at three —
Just “one more episode” for me.
My glory days? They’ve packed and fled,
I’d rather have an early bed.
The kids may think I’m past my prime;
I’m usually asleep by half past nine.
So here’s to age, the creak, the fart,
The dodgy knee, the ageing heart.
We’ve lost our rizz, our skin, our hair,
But not our right to drink and swear.
Raise your pint and toast the lot —
The old, the grumpy, slightly hot.
They call us “mid” — well, let them say:
We invented half their slang anyway.
And when they “skibidi” round the place,
I’ll nod with wisdom on my face.
I may not know what one word means —
But neither do they, so it seems.
Steve Halstead.
I don’t roam far these days.
The roads I loved have had their praise,
but the thrill’s grown still, the urge grown small —
I’ve no need now to chase it all.
The world still spins, the planes still fly,
but I’ve no hunger for the sky.
Peace has roots — I’ve found mine here,
where mornings bloom and thoughts grow clear.
The bottle sleeps upon the shelf,
and I feel more like my true self.
No haze, no blur, no bitter ends —
just simple nights, the talk of friends,
and quiet laughter, soft and low,
the kind that asks for nowhere to go.
I sip the air, the dawn, the rain —
and never wake to thirst again.
The crowd’s thinned out, as crowds will do.
I’ve kept the kind, released the few
who stayed half-present, half-untrue.
I don’t chase love, I don’t demand —
those meant to stay will understand.
And if they drift, I let them be;
I’ve grown content with only me.
The mirror greets me, calm and wise —
a few more lines, a steadier guise.
They mark the storms I’ve come through strong,
each wrinkle proof I’ve lasted long.
I smile at that familiar face,
slowed at last to a gentler pace.
My old dog dozes by the chair,
his silvered coat, his patient stare.
He dreams of fields we used to roam,
but seems quite glad I’ve brought him home.
No need for long, uncertain miles —
just quiet walks and knowing smiles.
He leans his head against my knee —
two souls at peace, content, and free.
I walk short paths, but take them slow;
I’ve learned there’s nowhere else to go.
The trees I pass don’t chase the breeze;
they whisper wisdom through their ease.
They’ve taught me how to stand and stay,
to live the soft, unhurried way.
So let the world keep rushing by —
its endless noise, its reasons why.
I’ll tend my small and steady flame,
call things by their simpler name.
Stillness, I’ve found, is not the end —
it’s where the heart learns how to mend.
Steve Halstead.
When Rowan burned beside the door
And ash leaves silvered every well,
The old wives knew what every crow
And every turning swallow came to tell.
No ledger ruled the moonlit field,
No factory whistle called the dawn;
The harvest rose from hidden hands,
And every sheaf wore autumn’s crown.
The elders walked with hawthorn staffs,
Their shadows longer than the years,
And saints and wandering fairy queens
Were neighbours to the mortal ear.
The blackthorn kept forgotten vows,
The standing stones remembered names,
While children gathered evening stars
As though the heavens were village flames.
Then came the engines, dark as crows,
With iron hearts that never dreamed;
They drove bright roads through sacred hills
Where once the silent sidhe had gleamed.
The wells grew blind, the fiddles slept,
The chapel bell forgot the rain,
And coins like winter leaves were blown
Across the kingdom’s ancient plain.
Yet often, when the west is red
And sheep stand windward on the wold,
I hear beneath the breathing earth
The slow, deep music of the old.
A ploughman’s ghost bends over clay,
A woman hums beside the fire,
And smoke ascends like faithful souls
Returning to a hidden choir.
The learned men may weigh the years
In profit, steam and tempered steel;
They cannot measure fairy dust,
Nor know what rooted spirits feel.
For history is a white swan’s wing
Upon the darkening water cast,
And every circle on the mere
Is made by something that has passed.
So let me walk the hollow lane
Where elder trees the twilight keep,
Until the living and the dead
Are folded in one dreaming sleep.
For all the kingdoms built of gold
Will sink beneath oblivion’s tide,
But customs whispered into children
Follow like the turning tide.
And somewhere in the gathering dusk,
Beyond the reach of worldly fame,
The old gods warm their fading hands
At one forgotten cottage flame,
Waiting until the restless world
Has spent its bright, unquiet breath,
To call us home by ancient songs
Whose silence is deeper than death.
Steve Halstead.
How does your mindset affect your financial success?
My mindset has probably had more influence on my financial success than I realised.
I’ve never been driven purely by money. I’ve always wanted to build something, work hard and provide a good life for my family, but as I’ve got older my definition of success has changed. I’m beginning to realise that having more isn’t necessarily the same as being better off.
These days I’m more patient and measured. I’m learning that pushing too hard isn’t always the answer—whether that’s in business, at the gym, or in life. Consistency and making sensible decisions over the long term are far more valuable than chasing quick results.
I also think being content with what I have changes the way I look at money. I don’t need to constantly spend to create happiness. A walk with the dog, noticing a view or a flower, enjoying time with family, or simply sitting doing nothing can be worth far more than something I could buy.
For me, financial success is becoming less about accumulating more, and more about having the freedom and security to enjoy the life I’ve worked for. Money is useful, but the real wealth is having the time, health and mindset to appreciate it.
The bench where you linger
Has no longing for roses.
The light has already chosen
Its oldest and gentlest bloom.
The trees incline without knowing why;
Even the wind forgets its wandering
To gather the silence
That settles about your hands.
No gardener could improve this place.
The earth has remembered your footsteps
Long before they arrived,
And keeps their music beneath the moss.
Birdsong is only an echo
Of something your breathing began.
The ivy climbs for a better view,
The old stones soften with listening.
Only those who measure beauty
By petals that fade in a week
Would ask where the flowers have gone.
The wise see differently.
They know the garden flowers itself
Wherever you choose to be,
And that every season, however barren,
Waits quietly
For the grace of your presence.
Steve Halstead.
If your pet could talk, what would be the first thing it says?
You know that look I give you? I’m actually judging you
What’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done when no one was watching?
Probably accepting that life doesn’t last forever, and that growing older means changing what we value.
Realising that I’m actually happy doing less. That pleasure can come from the most ordinary things — noticing a view, stopping to look at a flower, walking the dog, or simply sitting and doing nothing.
I suppose the bravest thing I’ve done when no one was watching was learning that I don’t always have to be doing something to feel that I’m living. Sometimes, just feeling content is enough.
P
Silver threads are drawn at dusk
Between the thorn and elder tree,
A little kingdom hung in air,
As still as any mystery.
Pale in the shadow, patient there,
The spider keeps its ancient art;
No bell is rung, no word is said,
Yet every trembling thread has heart.
In circles fine as winter frost
It binds the dark from bough to bough,
And waits for what the night may send,
As though it knew the hour somehow.
Down from the branch it softly falls,
A black bead swinging through the gloom;
Then climbs again its silver road
And takes its place within the loom.
Each step is light, each turning sure,
A dance no mortal hand has taught;
It walks the borders of its world
Between desire and death and thought.
Resting within the web’s still heart,
It feels what moves beyond our sight—
The moth, the rain, the wandering wind,
The smallest footfall of the night.
And when the moon is white on grass,
And all the fields are hushed and deep,
The web shines like a secret map
The stars have given earth to keep.
What seems so frail may hold a world,
What seems so small may govern fate;
For all night long the spider waits
Beside its silver gate.
And somewhere in that shining net,
Between the dark, the dew, the sky,
A little god of thread and patience
Waits for the world
to wander by.
Steve Halstead.
When night has hushed the little rooms
And laid its hand upon the stair,
I sit beneath the darkened glass
And send my thoughts where you may fare.
My daughter, with the morning eyes,
So bright the day seems born in you,
May kindness never make you weak,
Nor sorrow teach your heart untrue.
The world will praise the loud and hard,
And dress its hungers up as gold;
Keep something wild beneath your ribs,
Some flame the years cannot make cold.
My son, who runs as rivers run,
As though no stone could turn your course,
May you grow strong without the need
To make a weapon of your force.
Learn when to stand and when to yield,
When pride is courage, when it lies;
And keep enough of boyhood still
To wonder at the evening skies.
I think of roads I cannot walk,
Of doors that I shall never see,
Of hands that may be kind or cruel
When you have travelled far from me.
A father teaches feet to rise,
Then watches where those footsteps go;
And every lesson given in love
Prepares the child to leave him so.
I cannot bind the winter wind,
Nor keep the rain from where you roam;
I cannot spare you every grief,
But I can keep a fire at home.
A lamp beside the darkened pane,
A door unlatched against the night,
A voice that speaks your name unchanged,
A hearth that keeps its little light.
And while you sleep I bear the fear
That daylight teaches me to hide;
Yet fear is only love made dark
When love can no longer stand beside.
One day the rooms will quieten more.
Your coats will vanish from the hall.
The years will carry you away
Beyond the reach of any call.
And I will watch you take the road,
Though every mile may wound me too,
And trust the strength I could not see
Was growing quietly in you.
For before the world had weighed your worth,
Or crowned you, praised you, passed you by,
You were the stars above my house,
The fire beneath my winter sky.
And whatever names the years may give,
Whatever distant lives you start,
You will remain, when all is still,
The oldest music in my heart.
Steve Halstead.
When the lights are dim
and the evening starts to brood,
I see you as you see me,
as if we always knew
that somewhere in the silence
we would meet again.
You are still beautiful—
those lovely eyes of smiling blue,
still holding something of the girl
I once believed I knew.
And maybe your heart heals faster
than my memory allows.
You found a way to leave me
long before I knew how.
But there’s a little thrill
when you see me passing by,
a flicker in your eyes
that you are never quick to hide.
So how am I supposed
to get through this again?
I caught every lie you told,
I remember where and when.
Yet every part of you
still lifts me from the ground,
and you were the first to know
the love I never said out loud.
Perhaps the bells are ringing now,
perhaps the wheels are turning,
and somewhere in another life
we’re both no longer hurting.
I tell myself I’ll be alright,
that time will have its way,
but you see me coming
every single time I turn away.
Your eyes discovered
only fragments of the things
I had hidden underneath
the weight of everything.
But I learned a lot about you—
more than you ever knew.
I learned that sometimes love remains
long after love is through.
And when the lights are dim,
and the evening starts to fall,
I wonder if you remember me
at all.
Steve Halstead.
The Yorkshire Poet & Friends 