The Pike

Behold younder beacon without light, austere still dank from the winter night, a sentinal overseeing the expance, a landmark Lancastrians know at a glance.
The pike be thy name of old,stone ,bronze and iron tales have told, of ghosts ghouls and lost souls ,about the moors within the depths of winters hold.
The friday good ritual, the pilgrimage t the top of the hill ,to witness the heavenly spectical ,of the pike and the glorious county that surrounds.