A collection of poetry from the Dales
A nostalgic reflection on the quiet beauty of the Yorkshire Wolds, where rolling hills, morning birdsong and the scent of hawthorn awaken memories of younger days. When the Sheep Turn Windward explores the passing of time, the places we carry within us and the comforting thought that, in memory, we can return to the landscapes of our youth, if only for a moment.
A gentle reflection on love, loneliness and the quiet hope that someone will always be waiting for us. The Land of Our Dreams explores the comfort of cherished memories, the passing of time and the belief that even in our darkest moments, there is somewhere beyond the silence where love and belonging remain.
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.
They learnt to read the weather
in faces lit by glass,
to measure worth in numbers
that fade as quickly as they pass.
Their mornings start with warnings,
their evenings never close;
the world arrives unbidden
before the kettle boils.
They know a thousand tragedies,
each carried in their hand,
yet scarcely know the neighbour
who lives just down the lane.
Their laughter comes in fragments,
their silence scrolls for miles;
they wear invisible armour
to hide their fragile smiles.
The clocks no longer whisper —
they flash, command, pursue.
Even sleep is interrupted
by things that may not be true.
The old oak by the roadside
still offers patient shade;
it asks for nothing in return,
yet few have ever stayed.
The river has no followers.
The blackbird owns no brand.
The wind still writes its messages
across the open land.
Yet somewhere in their hurried hearts
a quieter child remains,
still longing for an afternoon
untouched by endless claims.
Scraped knees and untidy games,
the rain upon their skin,
conversations lasting hours
until the stars came in.
Perhaps the answer isn’t found
in fleeing from this age,
but leaving room for silence
upon each crowded page.
Where thoughts can bloom uncounted,
where stillness has a name,
where no one needs to prove their worth
or win another game.
They were born to breathe the world,
not merely watch it glow;
to carry hope with open hands,
not fear what they don’t know.
Steve Halstead.
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 of mosquito repellent.
But my answer is Spain.
In February, I’m heading to the south of the country for a whole month, exploring those lovely little whitewashed villages, wandering through narrow streets, sitting in village squares, and hopefully discovering places that don’t feature in every holiday brochure.
I want to experience Spain rather than simply visit it. To take my time, enjoy the food, attempt a little Spanish, and discover whether I can order a coffee without accidentally asking for a horse.
I’ll have my dog with me, a villa to call home, and hopefully a heated pool to return to after a day of exploring. What more could a man want?
Perhaps a little sunshine, a decent lunch, and the ability to find the car after wandering down one too many picturesque streets.
The truth is, my bucket list has changed over the years. It’s less about ticking off famous landmarks and more about enjoying the freedom to go somewhere new, take my time, and see what the day brings.
So, for now, Spain is at the top of my list. Not because I want to conquer it, but because I want to get to know it.
And who knows? By the end of February, I might even be able to ask for the bill without needing a translator.
Some adventures aren’t about going further. They’re about slowing down enough to enjoy where you are.
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.
