Beamsley Beacon

Painting of Beamsley Beacon by J.W. Turner.

This hill is as steep as any mountain;
Though far less high than the real thing.
Sure; it may only be 14 minutes’ high — 
But it still has the feel of a mountain.
And that’s all that matters.
I mean the steepness, rocks, boulders.
And, at times, the sudden changes in temperature.
And those wide-open views.

The loose, large cairn
(Like a tit on a hilltop -
Ungraciously plonked on a chieftain’s burial ground),
Points erectly into a sky
In which red kites fly.
These kites ring the Beacon.
They own the sky.
Where else would you find such birds?
The hill is their sanctuary…
At least it is today.
And today is when I’m here.

Yet parallel to the Beacon
Is an unsubtle clash: the A 59.
This road cuts straight through
The enclosing moors and hills.
And there’s that constant drone
(Like woodwasps in a summer wood)
Of oh-so-petty cars -
Each one going somewhere important.
But it’s fun watching the lorries slow down
(Like ailing asmatics)
As they struggle up the tarmacked hill.
They slowly ascend the long, long incline
Which takes them to Blubberhouses
And then through flatter lands
To Harrogate’s gaudy spectacle
Of pure Yorkshire poshness.