Steam.

The steam engines’ mighty roar,
Stealing through the hills and moors,
A symbol of power and industry,
The Victorian dream of efficiency.

Yet now, their reign has come to an end,
Their once-mighty power is on the wane.
The world moves on, the future arrives,
And the steam engine’s legacy remains.

But oh, how it played its part,
The throbbing heart of a grand design,
A time when progress was the theme,
And innovation held the key.

The demise of steam is bittersweet,
A sadness tinged with a hint of awe.
The Victorian dream lives on,
And we’re better for what went before.

Steve Halstead.

Giggleswick.

I ascend up the track from Stackhouse lane, via the wild garlic woodland walk,
My dog faithfully nudging my heel,
A feel of autumn in the air,
My heart pounding, trying to warm unprotected hands.

A hawk, majestically still on the stiff breeze, hunts unsuspecting prey,
And then the view from Giggleswick scar
Where the River Ribble runs swollen by overnight rains,
And the Settle to Carlisle railway hums to the familiar sound of distant steam trains.

Views of Langcliffe, illuminated one minute by bright morning sunlight,
Then darkened by fast moving clouds.
Bracken and wild gorse prepare for winter months to come,
A hint of brown on forest leaves,
And wild raspberry canes, their branches bowed with weighty fruits.

An occasional “Hello” from a passing stranger,
Their words lost immediately on a bracing breeze,
Exposed limestone rocks weathered by time as far as the eye can see.
This year’s crop of lambs turned into sheep.
This is where I roam. This is where I make my home.

By Steve Halstead.