A collection of poetry from the Dales
What if the meaning of life isn’t something we need to search for, but something we’ve been experiencing all along? Noticing That I Am is a heartfelt reflection on the passing of time, the beauty of ordinary moments and the quiet realisation that simply being alive is a gift. A reminder to stop searching for something greater and appreciate the people, places and little things that make life worth living.
In a world of endless notifications, social media and digital distractions, are we losing touch with what truly matters? The River Has No Followers reflects on the pressures of growing up in an increasingly connected world, where self-worth is measured in numbers and quiet moments are easily forgotten. A gentle reminder that life is meant to be lived, not simply watched through a screen.
What’s a country that’s at the top of your bucket list? If you’d asked me this question years ago, I might have named somewhere exotic, somewhere far away, or somewhere that required a suitcase full… More
There is a music under stone
No minstrel learned, no priest has known;
It stirs the roots where foxgloves bend,
Where roads begin and kingdoms end.
The trout that haunt the moonlit weir
Wear broken stars from year to year,
And every silver turning scale
Keeps half a truth, half ancient tale.
The sea has split its looking-glass,
So every wave lets phantoms pass;
The drowned moon walks on shards of light,
A queen divided through the night.
Beyond the heather the pale folk tread,
With rowan crowns upon the dead;
They neither bless nor curse the land,
But measure years like grains of sand.
Then out of silence comes the tread
Of those who marched, though long since dead;
Iron upon the sleeping clay,
A host that marched itself away.
No banner flies above their band,
Only the wind’s remembering hand;
Their drums are buried in the peat,
Yet still the earth repeats their beat.
The ash trees bow. The curlews cry.
Clouds are herded through the sky.
The oldest well forgets its name,
Yet every echo sounds the same.
I think the world was never made,
But dreamt beneath an elder shade,
Where every bird and stone and thorn
Recall the hour before the morn.
And we, who wander, deaf with years,
Mistake its music for our fears;
Yet all our songs are pale replies
To that first music, where it lies —
Hidden beneath the patient hill,
Where time itself is turning still,
Until the seas and stars are one,
And every ending has begun.
Steve Halstead.
Perhaps the stars are only stars,
and do not know we’re here,
perhaps the moon has never cared
how long we’ve stayed, or where.
Perhaps the universe is vast
and wonderfully unaware,
with no great plan concealed in it,
no promise waiting there.
And if that’s true, then what a gift —
to have no debt to pay,
no destiny demanding us,
no purpose to obey.
We need not climb the highest hill
to prove that we have climbed.
We need not leave our names behind
to justify our time.
Perhaps a life can simply be
the morning and the rain,
a dog beside us on the road,
then home and out again.
A flower opening in a hedge,
a blackbird in a tree,
the sound of someone laughing
who has stopped to walk with me.
A piano waiting in the room,
a familiar hand to hold,
the quiet things we once walked past
becoming bright with gold.
And maybe when we’re young, we think
that life must mean much more —
some distant prize, some grand design,
some reason at the core.
But age has taught me something else:
the ordinary can shine.
You don’t have to conquer anything
to say, this life is mine.
So let the universe be vast.
Let silence fill the sky.
The beauty of a fleeting life
is knowing it will pass us by.
For if there is no grand design,
no script we have to know,
then every hour becomes our own,
and every place can glow.
We are not here to satisfy
some purpose written high above.
We’re here.
And while we’re here,
we might as well
be astonished by it —
and love.
Steve Halstead.
What’s the best way to meet new people while traveling?
For someone coming from Yorkshire, the answer is easy: we just talk to everyone.
We don’t need an organised excursion or a team-building exercise. Put us in a bar, café or hotel lift and we’ll soon be having a conversation with someone we’ve never met.
Within ten minutes we’ll know where they’re from, what they do, where they’re staying, whether they’ve been before and, if the conversation goes particularly well, what they paid for their house.
And if there’s an awkward silence?
Don’t worry. A Yorkshireman can fill one of those before you’ve finished your pint.
The funny thing is, travelling makes talking to strangers even easier. Everyone is away from home, nobody knows anyone, and suddenly the person sitting beside you can become part of the story.
Sometimes you remember the sights.
Sometimes you remember the people.
By morning
the city had grown teeth.
They pushed through the pavements
in long white rows,
splitting the roads apart.
People stepped carefully between them
on their way to work,
as though they had always been there.
The sky hung low and swollen,
the colour of old bruises.
Something moved inside the clouds.
Nobody looked up.
At the corner of Mercy Street
a woman stood perfectly still
beneath a flickering sign.
She had been standing there
for eleven years.
Every morning
she turned her head
a fraction further
towards the river.
People passed her
without speaking.
Sometimes they touched her shoulder
for luck.
Sometimes they left flowers
at her feet.
Once,
a man brought his children
to watch her turn.
They applauded
when she moved.
At the bus stop
sixteen people stood
in perfect silence,
all facing the same direction.
None of them were waiting
for a bus.
Every few minutes
one would quietly leave the queue,
walk into the road,
and lie face-down
on the asphalt.
The others never reacted.
They simply closed the gap.
The shop windows were breathing.
Slowly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Behind the glass,
mannequins had begun to grow hair.
Some had teeth.
One had started whispering
the names of people
who had not yet disappeared.
People came every morning
to hear whether their own name
had been spoken.
Those whose names appeared
always smiled.
They were considered lucky.
Down in the market
they sold meat without animals.
It came wrapped in newspaper,
warm to the touch.
If you held it long enough,
you could feel it breathing.
Nobody complained.
Families gathered
around dinner tables
and ate in silence,
carefully avoiding
one particular chair.
That chair was always occupied
by someone who wasn’t there.
Children were taught
not to look directly at it.
They learned quickly.
At midnight
the apartment blocks
began to knock.
Not doors.
Walls.
Thousands of soft knocks
from thousands of rooms.
The residents had developed
a polite little custom.
Whenever the knocking began,
everyone stood beside their beds
and knocked back.
Three times.
Never four.
Nobody remembered
who had taught them.
The elevators still worked.
That was the worst part.
They descended
below the foundations,
past the forgotten floors,
past the pipes
and buried stations,
down to somewhere
the architects
had never drawn.
People went there willingly.
They queued outside the doors
every Thursday morning.
Some carried flowers.
Some carried photographs.
Some carried sleeping children.
Nobody ever came back up.
But every Friday
the queue was longer.
By dawn
the streets were crowded again.
People went to work.
Buses arrived.
Children carried lunchboxes.
The clocks continued
their obedient little circles.
Only the birds
had stopped singing.
They sat along
the telephone wires
with their heads turned backwards,
watching us.
And beneath the city,
beneath the concrete,
beneath the graves,
something enormous
was learning
how to breathe.
Slowly.
Patiently.
The shop windows breathed with it.
In.
Out.
The walls waited.
The woman on Mercy Street
turned her head
another fraction
towards the river.
And all across the city
people began opening
their windows.
Not because they heard it.
Because they remembered.
Then, somewhere
deep beneath the streets,
the breathing stopped.
Every light went out.
Every conversation ended.
Every mother covered
her child’s mouth.
And the whole city
held its breath.
Because somewhere
beneath us,
something was listening
for anyone
who didn’t.
Stave Halstead.
If aliens arrived tomorrow, what’s the first thing you’d ask them?
Where have you been ?
You’ve been gone ages.
What’s the most underrated life skill?
Being a good listener
What’s the best way to explore a new city?
The best way to explore a new city is on foot.
At least, that’s what the travel experts tell you.
They never mention the swollen feet, the aching legs, the mysterious pain in your back or the fact that by three o’clock you’re looking for a bench with the desperation of a shipwrecked sailor.
I like to start with a map and an ambitious plan. By lunchtime I’ve abandoned half the plan, by mid-afternoon I’ve forgotten where I am, and by early evening I’m sitting outside a café wondering how far the hotel is.
There’s never enough time, of course. You spend the first day trying to find everything you’ve read about, the second day revisiting things you accidentally walked past, and by the third day you’ve developed a close personal relationship with the nearest taxi driver.
But perhaps that’s the best way to explore a city.
Get slightly lost. Wander down streets you didn’t intend to visit. Find a little café, watch the locals, eat something you can’t pronounce and pretend you know exactly where you’re going.
Just remember to wear comfortable shoes.
And ignore anyone who tells you that exploring a city is exhausting.
They’re obviously not doing it properly.
What’s a moment in your life that made you feel truly alive?
It was probably the day my father died.
Until then, I suppose I had felt almost immortal. Death was something that happened to other people, somewhere in the distance, not something that had any real connection to me.
Then my father died, and suddenly the illusion disappeared.
It was a strange and almost bizarre realisation: if he could die, then so could I.
And in that moment, for the first time, I really understood that my life was finite. Somehow, facing death made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before.
The genie grants you a wish. What is it?
Just one.
And strangely, the older I get, the harder that question becomes.
When I was younger, the answer would have been immediate: money, success, prosperity — preferably all three, and preferably by lunchtime.
Then life changes, and so does the wish.
At one point I’d have wished for prosperity. Later, I’d have wished for success in business. Then the wish would have changed to seeing my children do well, and now I’d probably wish for their happiness and success more than my own.
These days, good health would probably be near the top of the list. Not immortality — I’ve seen enough of myself in the mirror to know that would be pushing the genie’s generosity.
And perhaps a little more time. Time to enjoy the people I love, travel, laugh, write a few things that someone actually reads, and enjoy whatever comes next.
So, genie, if you’re listening, I’ll leave the exact wording to you.
But if there’s a small cash bonus attached, I certainly wouldn’t complain.
After all, I’ve still got a few wishes left in me.
Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?
I think the relationship that has taught me the most about myself is probably the one I have with my wife. Not because it has always been easy, but because after so many years together, you can’t really hide from yourself.
She has seen me when I’m confident and when I’m not, when I’m full of ideas and when I’ve had enough of everything. She has watched me change, make mistakes, change again and occasionally stubbornly insist that I was right when I clearly wasn’t.
Growing older together has taught me that a relationship isn’t about finding someone who thinks exactly like you. It’s about finding someone who knows you well enough to challenge you, laugh at you, support you and still be there afterwards.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that I am still capable of changing. I used to think that by my age you were pretty much set in your ways. I don’t believe that anymore.
Sometimes the person who knows you best is also the person who shows you that you don’t know yourself quite as well as you thought.
Even after 44 years.
