The splashing water in the fountain sings
Like murmuring streamlets as from hills they spring
When I close my eyes I seem to be
By the road to Dent from Ingleby
In a river pool, the water shone.
A breeze of ripples swum this ocean
The limestone crags like bibles speak to me
A parable of images I see.
And as we climb up to the ancient town
A whirlwind rages, wills to knock us down
Yet God did not appear in raging storms
But by a still small voice, his words were borne.
So this fountain is in miniature
A holy place where new thoughts spring up pure.