Brave autumn leaves fall
from trees stout and tall,
‘neath feet torn and trod
by girls graced by God.
West wind bites the cheeks
in Pride of the Peaks:
that home in the hills
of souls scarred with skills.
Grey clouds hang their heads
o’er frail flower beds.
Through tears, angels peep
at babes as they sleep.
Raw rain runs down drains
as tourists on trains
offload into town
as locals just frown.
Red, gold, yellow, bronze:
God’s holy icons
lie still – no regrets
as sleepy sun sets.