Pass down the road where traffic never sleeps

And find, perchance, a building on your right:

A scottish bank, as white as dirty snow.

Turn down the quiet road that runs beside,

Through leafy arbours and their dappled shades

And taste the gentle aura of this place:

A breeze serene, a blush of deeper peace.

And then the railway leaps across our path;

A gleaming screen, eight lines of placid steel:

We glide across the bridge with eager feet

And pass from Heaton Chapel, to the Moor.

And now behold the people on display -

A type distinguished from the Reddish breed;

Clean-featured, taller, thinner, often blond,

With choices, windy hair and eager eyes;

Brought up without the pang of lethal shame

That incubates in squalid terraces.

 

And then by shops and bars we make our way,

Illumined by the glow of surplus wealth;

And modern churches, happy to be glad,

Enjoyed by those who never knew life's pain.

Another screen of trees uplifts the heart -

They touch across the road, like man and God;

Upon our left, a power station looms,

Its listed charms a wonder fine to see;

(That grand facade has graced our fairer dreams

So many times, on soft midsummer nights).

More common shops assail us, two by two

Before a jewel, a store replete with books:

From wall to wall they run in learned lines,

Resplendent portals to their worlds of thought.

 

And then the crossroads with its traffic lights

Brings this, our balmy journey, to its end;

Across the busy way our road runs on

To Didsbury, replete with inner light.