Baildon Moor

Baildon Moor

High above the grimy townscape,
Way away from chimneyed mills,
Smell the breath of summer sunshine,
Listen to the skylark’s trills.

Altitude provides deliverance
From a dreary, downtrod dale,
Full of folk and fumes and factories,
Cars that crawl and waifs who wail.

Lushly green, the stinging nettle
Grows in clusters round a stone,
Free from the threat of chemicals
In pristine gardens, neatly mown.

Couchgrass, ryegrass, both derided
As the gardener’s enemy,
Here can flourish unmolested,
Rippling like an emerald sea.

Sheep meander unimpeded
On this breezy, breathless moor
Safely lead their lambs to pasture
High above the urban roar.

Winds add operatic music,
Shrill soprano songs of praise,
To this magic panorama,
Up beyond the city’s haze.

Thistles thrust their spearheads upwards,
Strong and dignified and proud,
Skylarks, thrushes, peewits, blackbirds
Thrive, safe from the City crowd.

High above the tedious townscape,
Higher still than chimneyed mills,
Hear the serenade on nature’s
Glory in the skylark’s trills.

© Lynne Joyce January 2006