I step off the train.
Bradford interchange.
Platform glistening,
clean and clear
underneath the Yorkshire sun
that grins from ear to ear.
And I’m drifted back…
Sifted through the cracks
like fine flour through a sieve.
The scent of burning coal and
steam dances across my senses,
amidst the bustle of yesteryear.
Carriage decked in wood
sits eagerly awaiting travel.
The engine big and black
with a cloud of steam unravelling,
billowing through the air
like a soft pillow
of cotton wool futures.
A whistle cuts the atmosphere
piecing my ears
and the view flickers back
to here and now.
Sky pasteled
in woollen clothes,
a pullover of blue.
The roads we travelled,
the footpaths too,
the woad-coloured dreams
of yesterday's toil
to forward the expanse
of those northern dreams.
The wool capital of the world
where the roads
always lead back to you...
Yorkshire's rose,
standing beautiful, proud and true
in the green country fields
where the scenery takes your breath
and the heart devours the view that
swiftly sweeps in whispered dreams
to that place where only
woollen fantasies will ever do.
You can feel the threads
pulled taught throughout
the city air, A city of culture
where you walk in footsteps
with the ghosts of yesterday
that slowly fade through
the history that sweeps around you.
From medieval days, right on through
to modern nights sat beside the fountains
that dance with their delightful hues.
Such a glorious sight,
vibrant colours filled the sky.
and back through the mists
the steam mills combed and spun
in perfect time
with the cities industrial heart,
beating loud.
Upon her hillside home
the Yorkshire rose still blooms,
over the city she looms
bright and beautiful,
like a full moon
of hope upon a cloudless night.
Thanks for reading
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Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
