Cotter Force Poem by C Richard Miles

This, Yorkshire’s hidden secret, in deepest Wensleydale,
Can hold no mystic message, nor tell no ancient tale
Unlike dour Semerwater, whose murky waters drown,
As goes the old tradition, that long-since vanished town
But, up a side-stream valley off rushing river Ure,
The rivulets and streamlets headlong off hillsides pour
The chilling, crystal waters from looming, limestone fells
Which winter’s storms and showers, amongst the sunnier spells
Deliver to the hilltops above the valley floor
To teem through becks and gorges in ghylls down to the Ure.

There, on an April morning, from sleepy Appersett,
Along the road I travelled until, a mile ahead,
A wayside pathway beckoned, inviting me to tread
Upon a short diversion en route to Ribblehead
And, as I clambered over a crooked, wooden stile
And turned around the corner, the vista made me smile
For there, within my eye-line, wild apparitions reared
On stairs so white before me: stone steps carved wide and clear.
There silver, splashing streamlets tripped lightly over moss:
The elfin, fairy footsteps of tumbling Cotter Force.

Those tapping, tripping footfalls down flights of sculptured stone
Danced to an unseen piper, whose tunes the wind had blown
In swirling, whistling rhythms from sheep and lambs which grazed
On springing, verdant meadows where cattle chewed and lazed.
As flashing, nesting wagtails dashed by the trembling pool
Which plunging, Pennine waters filled brimful, icy cool,
They caught the new-hatched midges, which floated, flocked and reeled
In ever-constant motion, to keep their nestlings filled.
They threaded through the branches which made a new, green arch –
A living, timber bridge of hornbeam, ash and larch.

To complement their plumage in that sparkling, springtime scene
Was just one yellow flower, amongst the fresh, spring green,
Which waved just like the wagtails, but looked so sad and lost,
So single, solitary, regretting countless cost:
A daffodil on duty, a silent sentinel
To guard the rushing river, a doyen of the dell.
Then up the hill I scrambled, to get right to the top
And view the whirling waters, which down the stairwell dropped
And met its ranked companions, in golden uniforms
Which stood tall, proud saluting, unbowed by winter’s storms.

As I surveyed the cool cascade, reflecting pale spring sun
And stood upon the cliff top, ’neath which the torrents run,
I gazed into the gulley, above the waterfall,
Where, gurgling deep in shadows, I heard a darker call:
A gloomy, moaning murmur from depths within the gorge,
A sombre mournful echo, drove a mysterious urge
To wonder if this tranquil place held untold secrets still
And made me ask, returning, if this spot, this rustic rill,
Could hold a mystic message, could tell an ancient tale.
Is Yorkshire’s hidden secret in deepest Wensleydale?