The Miracle Of Bowden Moor Poem by Martin Ward

The Miracle of Bowden Moor
(Old Joe and Tip)

On summer days,
this Derbyshire Eden
hums with the sounds
of nature and walkers,
bounding, squawking
or Nordic Walking
God's bracken acres.

In winter, iced-fingers
touch this place
and dare those
who come for
whatever reason:
fell-runners,
gamekeepers,
curiosity seekers,
shepherds, farmers,
Severn-Trent
water workers.

Never God-forsaken,
but as near as nature
would have it taken
from human comfort.

Once rolling hills,
now drowned valleys
of villages, churches
and drained-empty
graves: an inland
seabed of memories
that lie beneath
the waters.

At eighty-five
years old,
an old shepherd
traced the tracks
that once led
to home,
across the moor;
his loyal sheep dog
by his side.
No-one knows
how he died:
just that Tag
was by her
master's side.

Old Joe, shepherd
of the Duke of Norfolk;
His Grace's home,
Derwent Hall,
drowned beneath
the rippling waters
that bathe the babies
of Derby and Leicester,
and wash the cars
of Sheffield.

The bitter winter
that burned the years
nineteen fifty three
to nineteen fifty four,
when blizzards blew
and swept the snow,
white as linen;
deep as blankets,
covering the pair:
Old Joe frozen,
Tip, somehow living
next to her master's
frozen side.
One hundred and five
frozen nights
and howling days.
Search they did:
rescue helicopters
and men with dogs
could not find them,
from before Christmas
to twenty seventh
of March the following
year: cold dinners
and table laid
for the dead
and one who lived,
presumably lived
on dead rabbits
and frozen pheasants
that lay beneath
the blanket.

Skin and bones
next to skin and bones;
Tag wagged her tail,
but would not leave
her master's side:
love never dies.

The faithful Tag
went home to
Joe's niece,
but fame
sought her out:
A canine tent
at Chatsworth,
to fuss the heroin
and holder now
of the animal version
of the Victoria Cross.

Next to the reservoir
stands a monument,
greater than us mortals
could ever aspire: to Tag,
the miracle of Bowden.