Ghosts of Rivington Moor

 

On a clear day from this windswept range

your eyes can see as far as the coast

and the mountains of North Wales

in heavy rain they can see little worth talking about

blindfolded by a dismal blanket of cloud

 

Centuries ago these hills were ablaze

warning of invasion from foreign lands

it’s pike still stands in solitary recognition

 

Up here could be the top of the world

northwest towns sprawl at my feet down below

their lights sparkle like a thousand jewels at nightfall

 

But this oppressive terrain takes no prisoners

in a blizzard on Winter Hill,

falling ice from the TV mast can kill

it’s not advisable to go up there on your own

 

UFO sightings, fond references in songs -

some of the other things to give this place fame,

but the iron Scotsman’s Stump stands cold

a merchant banker murdered in his prime

bones from aircraft disasters lie in these hills

only the hardiest of dead souls walk these moors

 

As I walk this cold, unwelcoming land

in the rain and hail, I hear them wail

It’s perishing, I feel so wet, cold and so alone.

 

The towering red lights shine for miles in the dark

but they’re now out of sight, they won’t help you tonight

now I’m scared, I really should be going home.

 

Atrocious weather relentlessly closes in,

driving snow in a lashing gale

and I can feel them behind me,

they’re not going to save me

and I don’t think anyone will find me

 

I can barely see the path, I pray it’s the one for home

 

Please let it be the one for home.

 

Jeff Dawson July 2011