Mow Cop Poetry

The Old Man O'Mow

Once upon a summers morn

I saw a face so forlorn

The face I saw was in the sky

With dark clouds looming passing by,

The clouds broke free to my delight

The birds were seen in jubilant flight

The hills they shone in vibrant colour

As cattle grazed and chewed their cuder,

An old man sits upon the hill

Surveying the land he sits so still

Each day that breaks he’s sitting there

He never blinks just sits up there,

His name they say is Mr Mow

He’s sitting there I see him now

He’s made of rock, He’s very old

The oldest man on earth I’m told

K. Twigg