Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.202
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
(The memories are simple, living the feeling significant)

After conquering Beamsley Beacon due Southwest,
Rombald’s moor stood, while for centuries
within the valley the minute dwellings
of grey stone, brick and muck.
Main waterway, depending on era
town or sailor beck, though far from sea it be,
many a hour spent there,
us kids born nineteen forty-three.

Five pubs, Heifer, Sailor, Swan, Crown and Fleece
also, the British Legion our birth place did hold,
where returning defenders of the nation,
and others, would sup up oh so bold.
Sunday dinnertime, last orders,
two ‘o’ clock to be precise,
when pubs would be emptied
by self, or by one’s wife.

Red double-decker buses,
Three mile journey to the pictures, we would go,
just a threp’ny come back,
then seven pence to see the show.
A shilling earned every Saturday morning,
pushing a perambulator cleverly stacked
to the brim, from ‘Brear’s’ old Sawmill,
where timber was stored, down the road.

Watching big lads playing football
on long summer nights, a common sight,
robust tackles part of the game,
so were the occasional fight.
Not too far around the corner, down Sugar hill
one could take a little trip,
see the General ‘Post office’
cradled on Main street, within the little dip.

Mills in the place were productive
over a hundred years with chimney’s tall,
spinner, weaver, and overlookers
wove the cloth to became an institution.
Alas the crack of the shuttle has ceded
the rattle of the loom has stopped,
there’s nothing left in the village but silence,
even the mill siren telling ‘o’clock.

Above the roof tops, configurations
the raw ejection of steam,
steel wheels standard gauge, the clank of iron,
driven across the plate girder bridge.
In desperate days of ration books,
over spill from tenders, coal the black gold
in cuttings beyond the naked eye
collected in jute sacks away from the law.

Top of ‘Moor lane’ in summertime
to everyone a beautiful sight,
where to feel so warm and carefree
everything in the world just right.
Sunday’s, Church bells rang in the distance
around the hills resonated,
natures chorus in competition
yet to all a complementary hand.

The annual visits to the river Wharfe,
High mill, Sandy banks or Brittan holm,
swimming and singing the Blues with vinyl 78’s
when many hours spent there.
Bright red bodies a plenty
some sleepless nights for sure,
it was always easy to be sunburnt,
but then easier to forget.

Pussy Willow upon the embankment,
Easter time adorned the Mount Herman chapel,
late summer, Blackberry’s transported in silver bowls
pots and pans of various description.
Rose hips paid threp’ny bit a lb for therapy,
leaves turning to autumn’
yellow, red gold to inspire the artists,
in contrast to darkening clouds.

Bonfire night the 5th in wintry November,
homemade parking pig and treacle toffee
and all them sweet goods
with roast spuds in abundance.
Roman candles fireworks and all,
lots of hard work aflame, gone to ashes,
heaps of sweat building bonfires
to keep tradition and have a ball.

Years and many miles do separate,
but one can only ponder
with all these simple memories
to cherish of over yonder.
The place is growing larger
with new folk all the while,
so, a message to you the locals
‘Stop village going out of style.’

© Harry J Horsman 2020
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required