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Poem	Rivers, tow paths, caravan parks From Kirkstall to Keighley The track’s ribbon flaps Like Margaret’s whirling and twirling At ten with her pink-tied hair And blue-check patterned frock O my lost beloved Mills fall like doomed fortresses Their domes topple, stopped clocks Chime midnight forever and ever Amen to the lost hegemony of mill girls Flocking through dawn fog, their clogs clacking, Their beauty, only Vermeer could capture O my lost beloved In a field one foal tries to mount another, The mare nibbling April grass; The train dawdles on this country track As an old man settles to his paperback. The chatter of market stalls soothes me More than the armoury of medication I keep with me. Woodyards, scrapyards, The stone glories of Yorkshire spring- How many more winters must I endure O my lost beloved?
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