Dead watershot walls sink into the green and brown land turned spongy by ice and winter rain.

Mortar crumbles, speckling the peaty podsol.

Soil conjoined with tree roots hidden for millennia

Sometimes is revealed by strong Pennine winds exerting force.

Loosened stones occasionally fall to earth

startling the sheltering sheep folded in the ruin.

Shiny quartz pebbles that once deflected masons tools

sparkle amid rotten grey gritstone.

Some small enough to line a Grouse’s crop

Walkers pause at the dark forbidding ruin

breaking for snap, bait, sarnie or a swig of tea.

Seeking out thack-stones that were once the roof to use as an impromptu seat or backrest to break the trek and refresh the soul.

Ghosts remain unseen but sometimes heard trapped in the wind