Yorkshire

Yorkshire, Gods own.

A menagerie of unfinished creatures

Slimy moss ridden rocks dumped

Without reason.

Towns that choke on legacy.

King Coal, cotton, wool?

Deposed.

Wounded towns sit by the flat pack Northern

Offices filled with the eternal graduates.

Rough grasses. Grazed by rougher lasses.

Its more beautiful than can be seen,

In the mist and the mucky drizzle.

You get it.

There and then. This is iron in disguise.

Abundant brass, shaped by the breeze

Slate, and stone, not Lancashire red brick

Its thick, or sounds it,

But its stronger than you think.

Awkward tribes chafe, badly, and only the plentiful,

Pristine water, stops these towns

from burning down

And bonfire light spreading, to the well to do

In northern tearooms

Market towns preserved like cottage jams

Ilkley, Otley, Harrogate-

So far from those urban eyesores, that irritate.

It seems great places always seep in

A damp love that angers and disgusts

On cold and skimpy nights,

Those inner city fights,

Thugs with tiny skulled dogs

That hide big enough teeth.

Home is more to me than mere comfort.

Home is here.

The pure blazing white of the rose

Smells ever so sweet.

But its thorns, in anger, seethe.