Above

Sat limestone high

On his throne of rock,

The mad King of the Dales

Laughed his bliss at it all.

Asking the skylarks: Could any day be better than this?

The sun shone hard from its high place.

Shone hard enough to ignite,

With sparks of life,

The silver-foil river below.

The valley was alive to curlew and colour.

Hawks, looking for the careless,

Strolled their own part of the sky.
The sheep, neat in fields,

Were insensible to it all.

The Mad King caressed the dark earth.

He thought it sweet.

And as naive as the sheep,

He sang again high into the sky

As it did its somersaults.