Yorkshire Poetry (c)

Ee twere rainy day
Rain were coming down slates
In tut easing trough
Out tut easing trough
In tut drainpipe
Out tut drain pipe
In tut kitchen
Cross kitchen floor
Down tut cellar steps
And drowning all me chickens

So went tut chap next door
See if he could do owt about rain coming down slates
In tut easing trough
Out tut easing trough
In tut drainpipe
Out tut drain pipe
In tut kitchen
Cross kitchen floor
Down tut cellar steps
And drowning all me chickens

He said Nay man I can do nowt about rain coming down slates
In tut easing trough
Out tut easing trough
In tut drainpipe
Out tut drain pipe
In tut kitchen
Cross kitchen floor
Down tut cellar steps
And drowning all yer chickens
You mun go tut town hall

So went tut town hall
See if mayor could do owt about rain coming down slates
In tut easing trough
Out tut easing trough
In tut drain pipe
Out tut drain pipe
In tut kitchen
Cross kitchen floor
Down tut cellar steps
And drowning all me chickens

He said Nay man I can do nowt about rain coming down slates
In tut easing trough
Out tut easing trough
In tut drainpipe
Out tut drain pipe
In tut kitchen
Cross kitchen floor
Down tut cellar steps
And drowning all yer chickens
Yer mun sell up and buy some ducks.

Deep in the heart of the buildings in town

buried deep in the bricks hard and cold,

there lies a world that very few know

and a story that waits to be told.

If the streets could tell of the sights they have seen

or the cobbles that people have trod,

the stately old trees, the seasons have passed

and the church where folk worshipped their God.

In the graveyard the memory of folk who have gone

their tragedies that have passed the world by,

the heartache, the suffering, that we cannot know

if we could, we surely would cry.

The child aged just ten, lies asleep in the earth,

no longer will she go to work,

in the cold grey morn, scarce a rag on her back

to the mill through the fog and the murk.

The pretty young lady with life still ahead

who stayed out with her lover too long,

when wind from the hills, chilled to the bone

now she’ll ne’er hear the lark’s happy song.

But as we go round the town, day upon day

spare a thought for those who are gone,

For with their courage, sorrow and joy

their lives, in our history will go on!

(c) Eric D. Bishop

DALTON MILLS

You were built in seventeen ninety and known as Strong Close Mill    
                       In eighteen fifty six you changed your name to Dalton Mills

          And to this very day you stand majestic, proud and bold

          But what are the deep, dark secrets within your walls you hold?

          Your looms were running night and day with clattering, fearful noise

          And all the while were being fed by little girls and boys.   

          When fatal accidents occurred young childrens lives were claimed

          Or loss of fingers, arm or leg left  little kiddies maimed.

          Down Dalton Lane your workers came, in early morning light,

          To toil and labour long and hard until the dark of night.

          Your chimneys belched out smoke and soot, polluting atmosphere,

          But time has healed, the air is fresh, and skies are blue and clear.        

Then in the nineteen seventies you fell upon hard times

          The textile mills were closing down, the trade was in decline.

          But thirty years have passed since then, another century’s here

          It’s brought to you new lease of life, a future bright and clear.

          So, with the Airedale Partnership, you’ll have a brand new start,

          In Dalton Lane’s development, you’ll stand there at the heart.

          With innovative businesses and dwellings by the score

          You’ll build a strong community just like you did before.

Edward Bamforth……….October 2006

How I wish I had listened, when I was a lad

To the stories my parents would tell,

Of the days of their youth, a time long ago

To grandparents, great Uncles as well.

But I was a teenager, I knew it all

My world filled with wine, women, and song,

Impatient with old folks, no time for the past

but now, all those memories are gone.

I wish I could turn back the old hands of time

To the days at my grandfathers knee,

And hear once again of days long ago

Of the town and the buildings they'd see.

Who can now say where an alehouse once stood

And the characters wherein that would meet,

The name of the bobby with cape and with gloves

And the roads that once were his beat?

There's very few left whose memories span

To the time before cars roamed the streets,

When gas lamps were lit, an eerie glow cast

And cobbles echoed to clogs on folks feet.

So listen I ask you, to those who still know

Whilst their knowledge and wisdom still last,

And record today all that you see

For tomorrow it will be part of the past!

                Eric D. Bishop (c)

A cloud of dark smoke hangs over the town,

chimneys like long bony fingers stand tall,

layers of black soot settle over the streets

and hangs in the air like a pall.

Children with faces, grey with dirt and with grime

still run, shout and play with the best,

no worries have they in their first years of life,

until they go to the mills with the rest.

Their childhood is short, a few passing seasons

though they age far more quickly than years,

but now and again their faces are clean

the dirt washed away by their tears.

In Westgate they stand midst noon’s burning sun

the stench goes unnoticed by all,

though many a child will go to their rest

with no answer to their old playmates call.

A tired old crone, with a harsh barking cough,

leans on a young lad by her side,

though her years are perhaps barely forty or less

her face, the ravages of time cannot hide.

So here we sit in our warm comfy homes

and sift through the pictures we find,

we still can’t imagine, the life that we see

or the tragedy of their daily grind.

 Copyright Eric D. Bishop

Rivock
Cup & Ring Stones


The small gods’ realms of leaf and bole
are gone now, hewn and hacked,
their temples felled, their power dispelled,
melted away into bog and heath,
bracken, whin and cotton grass.

Scuffed by centuries, splashed with lichen
the rocks remain, etched with cups and rings,
they endure. Scattered over the moors,
their purpose, half-guessed at,
intrigues and puzzles still.

Bent in votive awe, some artist
ran calloused fingers over these first glyphs;
primal mark-making that met a need to order,
an urge to please some god, sate some divine.
Lore and myth carved into stone.

I came upon one rock that reared.
Bright with rain, it breached the sodden moor,
its gallery of pocks and grooves
ladders and serpents, shining in relief,
clear in the diffuse light of a cloudy day.

As rain rattled on my hood, I dipped my shoulder,
followed forgotten feet, joined an ancient dance;
mirrored the movement of the stars;
printed patterns on the floor of a lost forest;
muttered a guttural chorus to my muddy strophe.

(c) Arthur Seeley

Cottingley Beck.

The narrow road drops down steeply
towards the beck and the bridge
where the two girls dreamed.

I lean upon the parapet
watching the brown peat-laden waters
spill over the shallow ford.

Their house, with tiny windows
mossy walls and stone roof,
is still there, with a Merc. parked nearby.

Sheltered from the pressing heat of this day
I search the trees and shrubs,
grass and rank weeds that crowd close.

Nothing seems to stir, my cynicism’s rife,
only the occasional flitter of a bird
through branches; quick and then gone.

Call them fairies if you will,
goblin, elf or pixie, djinn or sprite,
there is a place, there is a name.

They are the leaf that trembles catching light,
the falling feather drifting down the breeze,
a thistle seed, a shadow darting over water;

a figment, a little girl’s fancy,
the need to give a shape
a name, an embodiment

of the force that fills and flows,
the spirit that breathes through all,
the flame that fuses, fires our veins.