Haslingden. Poem by PAUL COLVIN

White static clouds in deep blue sky
Are tinged with rainbow hues.
Above the hills where hawks soar high,
Their quarry, sparrows, they pursue.

Landscaped fields of pastel greens
Are dusted with the winter’s frost.
The drystone walls built in between
Are covered now in coats of moss.

Countless towers on hills afar,
And castle turrets fill the air
Like giant chessmen perched on guard
There casting eyes are everywhere.

The panopticon is to my right
The Halo locals say.
An eco green it beams at night
Across this tranquil valley.

Many walks are taken here
On rocky, hilly slopes.
The summits look so very near
A fine walk with some scope.

The “Jollybarn’s” Christmas lights
And an English flag in shreds,
Helps brighten up the darkest nights
As folks are going to bed.

I’m taken to an antique well
Deep and round, an inverted stack.
Once full, now dry, it’s just a shell
With iron rails and painted black.

Up back, beyond, four dry ski runs,
Encaged in wire fence.
Fifty children have their fun
They jump and take their chance.

Once four deer did guard this place
Wicker made, they went astray.
Three are missing, fallen from Grace
The fourth looks on whilst children play.

Demon Meg would not come close
The ski run lifts’ noise scare her.
With Pip the dog to play, she chose
Preferring animal banter.

A lady stops to say hello
Four years here now, from London
The stunning view that lies below;
The reason she abandoned!

This Ramsbottom, this Rawtenstall,
‘Cross Rossendale to Accrington,
From reservoir to hospital,
This splendour known as Haslingden.

This village famed for hazel trees,
Once thick, it now lies sparse.
The woods were raped by farmers’ pleas
Replaced by harshest gorse.

The steam train puffs along the track
Interrupting natures’ sounds
A belching cloud of grey and black
Majestic as it glides along.

The mills and chimneys tell a tale
Of times long gone and hardship.
When local brewers put in gaol
For competing with their Lordship.

Tangential stories often told
They start off straight and true.
They tend to linger then unfold
But take wrong turnings halfway through!

A country stroll, a gentle climb
Both young and old a must to see
A hilltop stance with views sublime
Lies painted out before me.

A crusty path, a frozen bed
Is crunching underfoot.
The patterned mud of hikers’ treads
Iced over, left by boots.

The empty quiet lonely dale
No sign of life, it’s tranquil still
But upward climbs, the locals scale
To capture views from their own hill.