11/01/12
Sat amongst green grey Pennine folds and shadows.Comfortable like our dog by the fire.Stone terraces stacked in random lines and still the smell of wet wool from hot steaming chimneys.There is no flat in this Town.It's either up or down.Milk from the Co op in flimsy bags is burst by gravity on our hill.Uncontrolled footballs run downhill to certain death on Huddersfield Road.Watched by kids who know better than to chase more than a few yards.
Amongst the narrow streets and hills locals turn cars on a sixpence or less.Park up in the meanest of gaps with barely a glance. Squeeze into slim tall houses in sun or scuttle rodent like into under dwellings below.
On South Lane roof tops pigeons huddle like feathery football fans.Preening away the night frost. A lone rook clings to a clay pot.Beady eyes stare down into the warmth rising.
Dye work steam wet with wool hangs above the Nook and the Council office boiler melts glaciers thousands of miles away.
Beyond the the often dark steam filled town walled Pennine fields crumple and rise towards the Pennines peaty spine.I can look up from Hollowgate to Black Hill's black moors and day dream of gazing down from the tops to this creased up crevice of warm steep stoned home.
