To The Valley

 

     Such a beauty be the valley

On a crisp spring morning,

The dew clean and crystal

Like carpets of cut diamonds,

Each one reflecting

The presence of the sun;

Beholding the sun as jewelled,

The early birds swoop,

Soar and play their game of life,

And there is not the rumble

Of beings quickening - their time,

 

     I can see for miles here,

To Calder and beyond,

And as the slow sun rises

Further,

     I feel a deep indignation

Of my previous fifty years

In solitude,

     For although slumbered

Among the many houses

Of Manchester,

My curtains remained closed

To all trespassing eyes,

Keen to see into the dank rooms

That spread only fear

As spite kept all within

A self-imposed curfew

For, you dare not go

Onto the streets at night.

 

     This valley,

Brings tears of sorrow

To my squinted eyes;

Brings sadness for the many

Who endure their daily living

Within the Hell we built ourselves,

     And as my tears fall

Upon the grass now cushioning

My feet,

     I thank only

My own stubbornness

For realizing this dream,

For if I could save all

I would with all my heart,

For no man, woman or child,

Deserves the onslaught

Of staring daily,

Upon floors made of

Concrete, tar,

And madness!

 

 

Michael J Waite 17th February 2014.