Mow Cop Poetry
Mow’s Hidden Past
Moans only the
wind through the “ganni-holes”,
Where men once dug and now have left-
The
heather to hid mined out spoils
And
snow to fill the rocky cleft.
Creeps
the damp, green sphagnum moss beneath the caves
Where once the stone was hewn and dressed.
Now
only bracken misbehaves
To shield the rusting wheel at rest.
Silenced
are the clogs and boots
Which
trod Mow’s twisted tracks each morn.
The
feet of men who chewed the “backy roots”
No
longer swing their lamps at dawn.
Moans
only the wind in the Silver Birch
Who
storm-ravaged cling in small, hidden copse
And
the tall, green firs drunkenly lurch
To
mask Mow’s past life which is now completely lost.
Myra
S. Cowan
