For years it slept beneath the hills,

Where wind and silence shaped the stills,

Through heathered ground and shadowed vale,

Where only curlew told the tale.

 

A land once known, then left to rest,

Its ridges bare, its valleys blessed,

By time alone, by rain and sky,

Where watching eyes passed slowly by.

 

But deep below the stone and seam,

There stirred again an older dream,

A breath, a spark, a rising flame,

A whisper calling out its name.

 

The Dragon wakes. The hills reply.

The wind returns with sharper cry.

 

Across the slopes, through wood and air,

The birds once more are driven there,

On towering lines, both fast and high,

That test the hand, the eye, the sky.

 

And those who stand upon this ground,

Will know the pull, will feel the sound,

Of something wild, not shaped nor tamed,

A sporting place, reborn, reclaimed.

 

Then come inside, the fire aglow,

As storms may rage and winds may blow,

A glass, a meal, a story told,

While outside roars the hills of old.

 

For those who seek what few still keep,

Will find no comfort soft or cheap,

But something real, both hard and true.

 

The Dragon awakes. It waits for you.