​Penrith Castle

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Beneath the watch of the Beacon hill,
Where Cumbrian winds blow sharp and still,
Stand the red-stone bones of a Neville’s pride,
With secrets of kings tucked deep inside.

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Once Ralph’s stout shield against Scottish raids,
Its walls grew tall as the sunlight fades;
A royal home where a Duke once dwelled,
Before the white rose of Richard fell.

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Now the moat is dry and the halls are bare,
With only the ghosts of the past to spare,
Yet in every crack of the weathered stone,
The spirit of Penrith remains on its throne.

 

© W. Tony Crowther  9 January 2026