At The Hint Of Those Hills

The Moors, the Dales and the Wolds
That cradled my northern past
Still sing in my vision today
As my passion for life fades too fast.

As the Heather burns on the hills,
As the bracken’s green fades to gold
Does the beck still ripple with rust?
Are the tales I was fed still told?

Will winter still promise its white,
Will fires still burn in the hearth?
There where I first caught the light,
Where my ancestors lie in the earth.

Even now as the south holds sway,
The Jorvik blood in my veins
Thrills at each hint of those hills,
And for ever my roots sustains.