ODE TO THE VIADUCT

Combined columns of brick and stone, bridging

From a distance, it holds its grandeur still.

Upland pastures, sylvan vales and ghyll.

What joy marks such monumental ridging!

What pride due to those whose design and skill

Brawn and zeal created such lodestar!

Seventeen arches spanning a quarter mile

Base, parapet and deck whose track fills

The desire of adventurer and rover

To pause here and linger for a while.

The trackway bestows a portal of keen

Terrestrial splendour.  Gaze at the landscape;

Study the wilds.  Trees, bush and shrub akin

Abode of birds, butterflies, wildlife and wape

Part of the Great Northern Railway Trail,

Time was when the trains carried freight and travellers.

Now blessed be its province as pathway

For walkers, runners and cyclists, it unveils.

Honour Fraser, Johnson, Benton and Woodiwiss,

Jackson and Manywells for this noble trailway.

The viaduct extends itself to friend,

Family and nature as an apex,

An apogee, here with to inter-blend.

CATHERINE M. ABBERTON, BRADFORD

SENSES ALLURED BY CREATOR’S EFFECTS:

Champion the children

The runners and ramblers

Reservoir walkers

And Hewenden anglers.

Hail the horse riders

Eye the drone flyers

Mind cyclists and skaters

And skating board acers

Birdwatchers avid

Picnickers pleased

Bubble blowers, too

Climbers of trees,

Babies in buggies

And piggyback riders

Along come scooters and hoverboard gliders

Dog-walkers stroll, berry-pickers reap.

And should the flow cease

A godsend for solitude and peace.

CATHERINE M. ABBERTON, BRADFORD

BY WHITBY’S ANCIENT MONK’S TROD

I walk, alone, on a path where the Monk’s trod,

On the rough-hewn pavings, marching in single file,

To Whitby Abbey for their rendezvous with God.

But I, not pausing at swinging gate or narrow stile

Step from this path at Fitts’ Steep, stone stair

And, forsaking the distant Haven under the Hill,

Instead find somewhat rougher ground.

There lies peaceful solitude in a wood so still.

Where waits a Cathedral quiet amongst the mighty trees

In their tall Battalions of Holly, Oak, Beech, and Ash.

A space of quiet, not silence, as the breeze

Gently aids green leaves rustle and the raindrops splash.

For this Natures haven is where I can find

A shadow of what the Monks devoutly sought

Inner peace of heart and mind, never to be brought

Time passes unnoticed and the world is as it should,

In this: my place, my haven, in an unnamed wood.

DEREK J LEE, RUSWARP, NORTH YORKSHIRE

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