"O’er Ashworth Moor tha’ Looks"

Now then, sit thissen, tek a breather,
Tha’s climbed enough to sweat through t’ether.
Cast tha’ peepers ‘cross yon land,
Where bog an’ breeze go hand in hand.

Tha’ clouds drift soft, like cloots o’ cream,
While moorland hums a golden dream.
Water’s still as Sunday prayer,
Holdin’ shadows like it cares.

I mind mi dad, back int day,
Wi’ flat cap cocked, he’d often say,
“Tek a walk up Ashworth track,
An’ leave thy troubles not lookin’ back.”

Look ower yonder now — see yon rise?
Holcombe Moor ‘neath Lankyshire skies.
An’ what’s that sproutin’ tall an’ proud?
Peel Tower, aye, piercin’ cloud.

Peel Tower, proper grand,
Guardin’ moor like it’s king o’ t’land.
Built for Sir Robert — aye, Peel by name,
Same chap as bobbies, nowt like shame.

Mi grandad reckoned it were magic made,
From t’bones o’ hills an’ quarry trade.

And back behind, far way but clear,
Tha’ can spot Winter Hill, stood near,
Wi’ masts like pins in pincushion air,
Broadcastin’ songs for folk to share.

Eeh, I remember when I were nipper,
We’d trek up wi’ a jam butty an’ flask o’ sipper.
Mam’d clag mi boots wi’ Dubbin thick,
Dad’d shout, “Stop gawpin’, tha’ll catch a stick!”

We’d cross them fields all black an’ green,
Wi’ curlew callin’ sommat keen.
An’ frogs would plop in peaty drains,
Like kids dodgin’ baths again.

Wind gets up, tha’ hears it hum?
Whispers o’ mills long past and done.
Threads o’ weft float in the air,
As if t’looms still clack up there.

Ashworth reservoir, she’s broad an’ bare,
But holds the sky an’ walls wi’ care.
Mi mam would fill flasks wi’ hot tea,
We’d sit on t’edge, just her and me.

Fields roll soft like Sunday rugs,
Spliced wi’ stone walls, mossed wi’ slugs.
Crows call out like gossip spreadin’,
As if they’re news from Ramsbottom headin’.

O’ course, tha’ finds no telly here,
Just God’s own screen — wi’ t’best o’ cheer.
No need for chitter, clatter, nor rush,
Just grass, and breeze, and moorland hush.

So let thy feet find stone and peat,
An’ let thy soul know nowt but sweet.
For where tha’ stands, in light an’ breeze,
Tha’s in the lap o’ moorland ease.

Next time tha’s weary, lad or lass,
Climb up here through bracken an’ grass.
Let tha’ eyes find yon tower’s brow,
An’ feel that peace — just here, just now.