I call to Verbeia of the flowing river
and the scalding spring, of the heathery moor
and the spiraled stone. Goddess of the winding Wharfe,
lady of the serpents, lady of the rose,
enrobed in fine linen, barefoot on the wet sod,
we know you in the storm, when the rain comes
cold as ice, sharp as thorns; in the cleansing flood
we see your might, in the soggy ground we see
your foresight. Ever moving, ever working
in the world, ever constant yet ever changing,
resilient one who holds in hand the land:
Verbeia, enduring and unending, I praise you.