Thank you for visiting, even though my weakened winter rays were no match for the bracing wind, howling through the barren trees.
The abbey, stark and bold, staunchly braves the persistent winter’s cold. The flocks of sheep, happily huddle within their thick fleeces, months away from their annual trim and graze contentedly, barely noticing my existence on another bitter, short day.
The brook still babbles, as brooks will, the ducks they home float by, oblivious to the chill. The familiar hikers stride along, ruddy cheeked and short of breath to make the most of every moment I can spare before returning to their nearby homes and heated hearths.
And you, the day tourists shivered in the cold whilst marveling at Wharfdale’s sights, its picture postcard
scenes, captured in my fading light. The solid, quaint cottages nestled in valleys, the occasional pheasant screeching from the hedgerows, the stained glass windows, vivid and bold standing watch over the graves, the final resting place of the young as well as old. The surrounding hills which some consider bleak, others romantic, their stark beauty crisscrossed by miles of moss-covered, dry stone walls and higgledy bridges over which the walkers and dogs traverse as the day draws to a close.
I couldn’t keep you warm or protect you from the icy gusts, and yet you came and so, with thanks, I gave my all, to help you create cherished memories before my depleted rays faded to a somnolent grey.