When a man stands on the edge of the moor br Receiving the wind’s rough investiture br Of all that power which remains extant br From the creation of air, sea and land br br He can cower in the lee of a wall br Or stand at his task on the pinnacle, br A monument against the howling sky br To all the ambitious dreams of mankind. br br If I were an artist I would demand br Between new Hambleton and Old Byland br A statue raised to the living and dead br With hill forts behind and the vale ahead; br br Though the Yorkshire grit from which it is hewn br By facing each day into the typhoon br Would come to clothe the air in yellow dust, br That change I understand, as all men must. br br * br br To rise swiftly from the valley of cars br Scything the heather in mud-spattered arcs br With boots crushing broken straws of bracken br In peat which darkly preserves our passing, br br When warmth as solid as the sun is rich br Builds as you break like dawn over a ridge br In the deep strata of shoulder and thigh br And suddenly covers a thousand miles; br br When, disturbed, a grouse hiccups into flight br Low through the mists which are thick with light; br When this could be some damp city alley br Where children and drunks meet principally br br For love, and to solemnly keep their trysts br For all that the outside world still exists - br Know this, the old walker you overtake br Is yourself, setting a different pace.