Mow Cop Poetry
First
village
of the Pennine
Chain / Veined with skinny up-bank
lanes /
Winding byways pinched between / Old
drystone
walls tossed with green / Chapels frowning
down on
pubs / And Sunday Bingo in the Working Mens’
Club / Grand, owd, worked-out wench / Resting on your
bedrock bench
/ Through mizzly days in early spring / And puthery days hot summers bring
/ Lost in the mist when Autumn’s
come / Or shawled in the silks of the setting
sun / Warming
your toes these frosty nights / At your embered hearth of far town lights.
W. Terry Fox