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(An Addingham Poem)
Many words have been written
many more have been said,
about this verdant countryside
which lives on in one’s head.
The many faces of the beacon
no matter from where one looks
different angles causing speculation
mound alive with sparkling brooks.
Ilkley moor; cow and calf rock,
standing all weathered and bleak
to this fine old roman town
come tourist boisterous and meek.
Black Foss in mid winter
frozen lance nine foot long
what force to stop such water
that creates December’s song.
Towards the ancient abbey
crystal waters rushing by
Stepping-stones for access
the Strid! A lonely place to die.
From my window every scene
virtual reality not a dream
memories alas now I need
to strive somehow to redeem!
© Harry J Horsman 1985
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