Beamsley Beacon

Perspective to the peak, a loose assembly

Roughly conical, of stones; an accumulation

Not too permanent, a pride to add to,

An anarchist’s joy to disperse.

The first time, in summer, heather grew

To the west, on the steep slope facing the abbey,

And bracken still green, its coarse fronds

A dry sea down to the first wall climbing.

Again, in autumn, when the rain long lost

Had quenched the burning roots and peat

Had cooled the stones’ hot day and night,

The western slopes were black burned to the ploughed field.

Winter’s bright January day found a boy scout’s flag

On top and motorists en famille strolling,

Prosperity’s bright colours stippling the grey stones,

Dogs and children weaving the grass tufts.

But February’s snow, wet and unfrosted

Nudged by rain and cloud drew no friends

From firesides, and only a child’s determination

Grooved sleigh lines where no foot had trod.