Today, Bowland rain bathes its languid lane,
Off gritstone tiles it runs, and courtyard plain,
Drowned and drenched, in rivulets it weeps,
Steeped in seep, soaked and still, it sleeps.
Seductively soothing in sadness, lullingly forlorn,
Bank-ramped blooms, now earthly drawn,
It plains, and slips, into another faultless day,
Of silent haze, and drizzled grey.
Shambling ranked abodes, worn winter wan,
Colourlessly tumble down its cobble run,
Immaculately impaired, jaded to sublime,
Resplendently ravaged and ruined by time.
From fell-land floods and heathland falls
A running rill now it quells, then crawls,
It slows and stalls, to sleepy still,
Where wintering mallards dip and mill.
On prominence and pressing down,
Twined oppressors, cross and crown,
Flying high Saint George’s banner,
Cloth on Church and carved on Manor.
And there in shroud looms Pendle Hill,
Pennines‘s orphaned over-spill.
A lonely mound and sombre stone,
Overlord to a dullened down.