Its intriguing
The way the river Esk flows
cascading burns for its limbs like
A giant centipede it creeps
Through the Scottish hills and valleys.
And following the landscape
It twists and turns
Yet it is old, ancient
And stands host
To the ever changing scene
On its shore;
Girdal stanes* and Loupin stanes*
May strike forlorn figures among
the meadows where soggy fleeced sheep
Roam and graze,
But like wise elders they tell
tales of the Neolithic age, when warriors cried out from
Bessie’s hill* resonating throughout
The valley of Eskdale.
Now the clash of cymbals
Echo along the shores of the Esk.
While the breeze flaps the 7 coloured flags
And living souls are serenaded by
Chants lilting from the temple like
Dakinis playing celestial music in the sky.
