Ingleborough Poem by john thomas

Most revered mountain of my Countyland
A Yorkshire Folks Mecca to atop your summit stand,
Your anthem sung by travelers all
Hob nail on millstone grit,
The Pilgrims toil most justified
When on your back, permitted, they sit.
Majestic King of all the hills
Upthrust from valley floor
Your limestone riddled cavernous holes catch gales that make you roar.
Proudest of the children three
Refilling empty hearts that glimpse of thee,
Broad shouldered giant of these lands
Rex you are crowned by natures own hand.