Bishopdale Longings Poem by C Richard Miles

Let me go back to lonely, homely, hidden Bishopdale
Where Newbiggin and Thoralby lie nestled in the vale
And contemplate the curtain of West Burton’s waterfall
And tread the path to Walden, the remotest of them all.

Let me go back to farmsteads hanging on the hillsides steep,
Where glaciers eroded through the limestone, cutting deep,
So splashing streamlets bubbling out from Lady Wasset Well
Play tippling, tinkling melodies whilst plunging down the fell.

Let me go back to Kidstones near the summit of the brow
To marvel at the meadows cropped by hardy sheep and cow
And descend the helter-skelter of the road to Myers Garth
Passing Dale Head, Howgill, Smelter, farms that lie along the path.

Let me go back to take again the route remembered well
Where buses battled bridges as they tried to weave their spell
To entrap them on the corners as they zigzagged crossing becks
With the traffic streams behind them serpentine as grey goosenecks.

Let me go back to How Syke, Swinacote and Ribba Hall
And think of all my forebears who farmed there, in fields so small
With their stone-built barns for shelter in the winter’s biting storm
And I’ll sup a beer at the Street Head Inn with the log-fire blazing warm.

Let me go back to where the Heseltines and Dinsdales dwelt,
Though I now live in London, in the grim commuter belt
And recollect my ancestry, ere memory shall fail,
That made their mark in times long past in distant Bishopdale.