The Old Man of Roddlesworth

I set myself to climb Great Hill.  Grey mist periodically gave birth to a drizzle, and then to rain, then to drizzle again.  I approached the stone walls at the peak and could not see a soul.  Not stone walls for sheep, not for restraint or constraint, but built no more than 20 feet long, in the middle of nowhere, where the hill meets the sky.  Four stone walls, joining each other at right angles so that, from space, they would have looked like an x.  An x at the top of Great Hill, looking for a box to fill.  And beneath the walls, running North-South and East-West as they did, stone benches for the weary, and shelter from the wind.

In their lea, someone other than me.  An old man in a long, tattered, waxed-cotton coat, with a storm cape at his shoulder, and a hat, and a staff, and a beard, and a keen look in his eye.  I sat on the bench where he sat, a respectful distance between us, and we faced together the North-East sky.  The clouds parted and a beam of wan sunshine fell across the hillside.  The old man straightened his head, held out his hand to the view, and said ...

'Rain falls upon the slopes of Great Hill then flows away rivers to fill as it has done since hills were young then came the Dane to give land his name but Calf Hey Brook flowed - it flows there still trickling down Great Hill.

Down to the road it trickled and flowed then rose near the holy well where the Saxon drank mead then it flowed North to feed the forest down in the dell past Hollinshead Hall mighty and tall for almost 500 years gone now all gone but the stream trickles on anointing the Well House with tears.

Four glassy pools like eyes to the skies that the rain should not be for nowt and the stream ventures on like an innocent child lost as it wanders about in the forested vale while over it sail thunder that flows East and West on five lanes of hell with hard shoulders as well but they tell me its all for the best.

Beyond the road it trickled and flowed but deep within the dark dirt to the hell of the mill that turns it to swill - there's nowt now to rhyme with 'culvert'.'

I listened and looked where he gestured, then the clouds closed their blinds and put out the sun and the drizzle fell once again.  I turned to the old man but he was already gone, his figure shrinking into the mist as the drizzle turned to rain.