Crimsworth Dean

Crimsworth Dene Light relieved land stamped down and raised mounds and hidden folds, revealed the valley’s follies, farms and sunken rivers. The bright afternoon eye-level sun painted radiance on the dead leaves’ shimmer, rainbowed the waterfall’s joyful spray, and drew eyemotes floating into dancing stars against the sheeted blue. Outward away past the framed horizon, the sillhouetted church, the tiny Pike, crepuscular shafts healed the broken air and the shining clouds glowed. The ancient ruin of a farmhouse still holds the ghosts of lovers that once longed across the valley’s gape, forbidden to cross. They rest somewhere near, whilst their dreams still fall towards the river where today, the clough throws its soul-drops over Lumb Falls. Follow the water, and the stream for an instant, becomes brief despariing citizens of the beck hurling themselves, flying and dying to join the river-republic of the hereafter and tumble on ecstatic to the sea. The central beam, the backbone of the farm, cracked and snapped one day and still rests piercing the floor, now boggy grass. Where the foxgloves towerin early summer, the moss has taken over the lease and the sheep shelter in what is left of the larder and the parlour. Somewhere under the boulders, the bedroom continues to rot , and where their passion lived, the sun now lures weeds towards itself, rising and falling through the centuries.