Ode to the Half Moon

Chill wind winds o’er the Wharfe

Head down, hunched traveller in from the North

Cutting cold closes, no cover from heaven

Freeze frost to skin like the moss to the Chevin


Glimmering glimpse shimmering yonder

‘To head into the warmth or onward to wander?’

Ponder and ponder, can take it no longer

Hurry along as the hunger grows stronger


Into the belly of heat, smell of meat, tip tap of warm feet

A half and a dram by the hearth with a familial feel

From noon ‘til luna light,

toast the Half Moon on a dark and stormy night

Half Moon, Pool in Wharfdale

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