Peels Arms and apple pie

 
The rail track once to carry  
coal from Yorkshire fields
redundant; lorries now and diesel.
a country walk and straight.
The sun across the reservoir
coats,  hanging on our arms,
this  a place of romance,
cotton long  gone to India,
stone cottages clinging to  the hill .
Peels Arms, apple pie and cheese.
 
Across the valley white farmsteads
beside the Wood-Head Pass
 heavy with lorries yellow, green,
Wispa blue and Kit-Kat red,
steep  hills, grinding gears
as sheep quietly graze,
and cows munch cud.
 
The dog looks back ‘This way‘?
as we struggle with a stile,
hid in hawthorn hedge and fire-weed pink.
Nettles, tiny white blossoms
frustrate behind the stinging leaves,
never admired like the lily or the rose,
take time to look when next you pass.
 
Manchester to the north not far,
jets ply their trade to foreign lands
writing in the sky, ‘Goodbye’ and ‘Hello.’
The footpath between the houses
leads us to this scene,
overgrown with seeding grass,
narrow as a tightrope.
 
The station now a dead-end
Glossop on to Manchester
offices, Costa, HSBC, Next,
so they come and welcome;
but can't help weeping for the cotton.
Old factories monumental dinosaurs,
luxury condominiums, knee-length boots
electric trams chased by BMWs.
Then back to cosy  Padfield,
Peels Arms and apple pie.