Saddleworth Moor

Crossing the Pennines, rocky spine Of the country running North South, Following the motorway west From the Humber Estuary Mouth It always felt cloud bound whatever The weather or the time of day Stretching out on either side of England’s highest motorway. Saddleworth Moor, place of ill fame It looks desolate and bare and bleak And I felt uneasy as I criss crossed it Each Monday every single week . It’s a place of pain and torture Murder, loss and despair The victims being young children , Callously buried out there . Their graves unmarked On that unforgiving ground At least one poor boy Was never ever found. The perpetrators taunted parents By just refusing to tell, Each enjoying their notoriety from The safety of their prison cell. Every Monday as I crossed it I swear I felt pain and grief And having crossed on return Swear I felt a sense of relief. That already dark bleak place Earned a such a sinister fame. Saddleworth Moor entered history As a sinister and haunted name. In memory as I crossed over, And I know this can’t be right, But it never ever seemed To be bathed in sunlight.