We were treading cobbled stone in old ‘aworth.
Pretty village, set on th’ edge o’ th’ moors.
Famous for those sisters of Brontë’s own worth
Wi’ steam trains and volunteered, carriage tours.

Now the locals spoke their own funny dialect
It sounded like “ Ilkley Moor -Ba' Tat”.
Though, I suppose in droll winter idiolect
One would be wise, not venture out without ‘at”.

The village was crowded, and full of strange folk
who seems to have arrived by all kinds of yoke
Some on bicycles, others, by means more bespoke.
Though they that chose walking, I thought was a joke.

There we chanced on dooms, strange dereliction
who said he came from livers' bird in a pool,
Scousers’ part of “Liverpyule’s” self-quoted dilation.
We believe Old Swan. Or somewhere, just as cool.

Though on reflection he talked, more of Edge Hill
Sefton’s elite says you should try to avoid.
Though, if you live in Kenny and feel you fulfil,
then your wallpaper may be, a textured algoid.

Now our poet who sounded like street's exey cosher
whose news print, seems got slightly wet in a storm
Set his wares out to lie, weighed down with albata
said wrinkles were true watermarks finer norm.

With nothing against Scousers, they’re mostly a scream
though it’s true their football, now seems nowt but a dream.
Turn Anfield’s onion into one great leisure park.
Where those divvies, can pick pockets, in places not dark.

Seems Ashworth’s finest had been let out for the day
we hoped, they did not sagging skew run away.
What would Maghull be, without its scally of names
An’ Kirby kisses; on side, their prowess it claims.

We asked him which writings, he wished us for to see
being polite, day-trippers, as we really should be.
Raising his voice half an octave, he sounded quite stern
“Come gather round, I’ll quote, my latest new kern”.

His utterances shrill, like anacamptic set free
saw his words make little sense to anyone, I could see.
“Hi wack yer esprit’, scouse, poets newest appointee
death-knell of old poetry and of its cacheted Brontë.

Rakish words echoed up, high street’s old worldly charm.
Seen such scenes in its past, ‘pose others -will do it no harm.
Even whitish dove settled down with no signed alarm
little blighter! Stole half a butty, of roast beef on a barm.

Our poet, took up, rhetorical type stance
he read from paged writings with more than a glance.
One would have thought he’d perhaps, remember,least one
though in truth, it’s true , we too remembered they none

Said he’d no time, for they who would read old rhymed verse
or who still ask why, modern poets, make little sense.
Time’s come for us seek abandon stative coerce
and its Acton Bells which Brontë, gave grave offence.

So, we edged there away: as if, we were as one
Truth was we only came, to see those real oldies run.

Sequel to the Poet of ‘aworth. Blank Verse

Walking back up through ‘aworth village
with its cobbled streets,York stone pavements
period terraces with bull’s-eye squared windows.
We were glad of the chance to stretch our legs
after a wonderful and exhilarating ride,
in the local steam train. (the Scotch Flyer)

The views that we had seen were fantastic,
as we chugged, steamed and whistled
,how we whistled through cuttings,
under bridges,through rock ginnels
sometimes wrapped in dank steamy smoked haze
in eerie tunnels, - of adventure.

Even the moorland sheep looked different,
from the usual blue headed Wensleydales,
here Brecknock Cheviots turned their white faces
as if interested in our progress
of noisy steam perspiring intrusion.

Picnickers by the river waved excitedly
as we hissed sibilantly up the steep, incline,
in a streaming cloud of smokes steam vapour...
Sighting blaeberry pickers, on its embankments
we could just imagine those hot blueberry pies.

In the village, nothing it seems had altered.
The last occasion something really did change,
was way back in Oliver Cromwell’s time,
when a detachment of the King’s Royal Cavalry
burned it to the ground in sixteen forty four.

Today, it still looks much the same
as it has for hundreds of years.
Its cobbled streets now worn smooth
by endless steel rimmed cartwheels.

Neat terraces display their various pot plants
and bicycles still defy wardens their intents.
Not even scouser, the new age poet. (He was still soliciting attention)
had moved from his perfect allotted spot
from outside the ever busy Fleece Inn.

Good thinking wack, we all thought
set them up on the way in
and nail them on the way out.

Give them plenty of scally crack
“real roeiled geold from de Mairzee”
There is nothing like being in dickies meadow
when the nuggets are there for the picking.

He now probably on his third, fourth or fifth pint
of local brewed Lancashire Thwaites bitter
all but gone; however, it was a hot day
and we had to agree
that it was somewhat better than Cain’s IPA
which would account for the ruddy glow
on his otherwise, normally sallow cheeks.

This time we tried to avoid conversation,
more intent on a cream tea, than poetry.

However, it was to be of no avail the Scouser!,
he had by now recognised us.
We being from the best part of Cheshire
could not abandon our natural instinct for good manners,
we stopped-reluctantly

. “I’m the poet of ‘aworth,”he said directly
handing out one of his many tattered broadsheets
to our now less than willing, or too eager hands

“Oh” replied I, “We thought the sisters Bronte’s were.
” Ah! he exclaimed, this is now the age of change
contemporary free verse has taken over,
the old being swept away, we are the future.

“But I quite like the old”, I replied stubbornly
that is why we came here today, to relish the past.
You, it seems will have to wait at least a hundred years
to observe if in fact you did finally survive.

I really enjoyed my cream tea after that
he, was still standing there looking slightly bemused
as we made our way to the Bronte museum.
Our travel companion, for the day. Mr S.A (famous poet)
could hardly conceal his laughter.

Mor..