A West Yorkshire Scene

Carved coping stones curve over dry stone walls,
aged, weathered, smoothed with chisels and rough hands,
warmed by the evening sun.

From under summer trees long shadows stretch,
across a cobbled lane to gable ends
of ancient cottages.

A lane that twists and dips then vanishes,
to where brown trout might swim in a cool stream
beneath an old stone bridge.

Did folk in Sunday best once cross that stream
to climb a steep path leading to the church?
Do people still go there?

The stone viaduct arches its eyebrows
and sneers at long necked lampposts, made of concrete.
They won’t weather the time.

Out of sight a mill lies demolished, felled,
fallen, like the old graves in the churchyard,
that still mourn the mill workers.