Stott Hall Farm

White-washed walls protecting

so many generations against

the worst and best of bare-faced

Lancashire moor. Standing lonely  

in a shallow valley beneath a wide

wild sky - a harsh companion to

share the view of distant industry

Burnley and Blackburn far below.

For centuries, on dark December

mornings the crow of the frigid

cockerel, the bleat of hardy sheep

and the splutter of wind blown snow

battering frozen stone were the only

sounds and on rare balmy August

days, the jingling song of the hovering

skylark, high in shimmering haze

over sheep cropped meadows.

Half-a-century ago, solid foundations

blocked the path progress chose.  

Dressed stones within white-washed

walls would tumble into memory

and become a base for asphalt and

restless grass churned to quagmire.

Northern grit challenged Southern wiles

to a standstill until nature lent a helping

hand. Trapped beneath the land, bog and

bubbling beck rebuffed the wrecking balls.

An oasis within a noose of black ribbon -

more lonely than ever before. Surrounded

by endless thunder; never short of fleeting

visitors to turn their heads and stare in awe.