In a green and tranquil valley,

peaceful dale, at Vale of York.

Was a wand'ring woolly graveyard,

where we went to take a walk.

Nestled in the sloping green field,

stood a house of mellow stone.

Beneath its solid slate umbrella,

lived a farming clan at home,

Fortress walls around their farmland.

Valley sides held off the world.

Tended fields sit by the farmhouse,

patch worked with the purple heath.

Bound by ancient dry stone ribbons.

Weaving grey, unflinching wreath.

Woolly headstones change their pattern,

signalling another threat.

Helicopter in the farmyard,

posed in brooding insect rest.

Drooping rotors ape antennae,

over shining carapace.

Metal beetle in the farmyard,

is their lifeline and their death.

Misty shroud engulfs the hilltop,

closing in on bygone age.

Stark, beautiful and rugged stone.

Sweet, crystal stream and awesome view.

No longer hosts of farmers living,

groaning under tourist flow.

Sheep that once had fed and clothed them,

now are jst an ornament.

This farmers stock is in the city,

work a chopper ride away.

Millionaire in rural playground.

Shepherd now has had his day.