I moved to Yorkshire in September 1985. I had had enough of London. Over the years Yorkshire has become my home and I get on with most of the locals. Of course there are racists and facists where ever you choose to live and in that respect Yorkshire is no different from other parts of the world.


Mile upon mile of ice and snow, as March winds blow a bitter chill,

As grumbling from the inn they come, to make their way up Sowerby Hill,

With stumbling feet, they find their way, as overhead in the cloudless night,

Stars shine down, on a Calder Stream, that echoes with a lust for life.


They call it the backbone of England, those hills that are not far away,

And as I reflect I remember, times of a long 'gotten day,

And no matter where I lay my head, no matter where I may roam,

I know I am but one step, one step from going home.


And in the forests of grey stone, where the bare armed women chat,

Across those stumpy little streets, that are their homes those back to backs,

Adjoined by day, by washing lines, the coal man with his old flat cap,

Must guide his horse, his cart, his load, where pantaloons and bloomers flap.


The night is long the hour is late, as lonely ewes with fleeces torn,

Huddle by the open gate, give startled cries and wait till morn,

While out upon, the wilderness, the foxes roam both near and wide,

They'll take the old, the weak, the young, and have their fill come Easter tide.


© Joe Stead - Fore Lane Music August 1997

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