Fuzzy-felt moon

Stitched against a purple sky,

Lacquered black tower

Guarding sleepy pasture.

Cattlemen and traders,

Vagabonds and Flemish sailors,

All have trod these pathways

That wend across the Westwood.

To homes and embered hearths,

To taverns full for market day

Or, wearying their final trek

Along the path beside the Beck

That leads to leather-laden barges

Moored at Grevale haven.

And walking back from Walkington,

Something of their history,

Something of their industry,

Some part of their community

Hugs and close embraces me

As do those Minster towers,

Harbingers of sanctuary

Now lit with electricity

That gleam against a purple sky

And beam a “Welcome home”.
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