[ Verse| Yarn Spinner]
[City of hills] and [sheep] and men,
Where [mill stacks] weave the combing rain,
I spin your story from a pen;
Sheep are not noted for their [brain].
The [carpet] of a road rolled down,
A [tapestry] of [bikes and carts],
The stained [machinery of the town],
A muscled hedge of [beaten hearts].
This is [the place where I was born],
The cracked flags of [my first walk];
A [fleece of fancies] clipped by scorn,
A [skein of yarns] that taught me [talk].
[Weeds] now thread the knotted weft
Of cobbles bunching up the broken hill.
Abandoned [houses], there is little left
Except the splintered raftering where still
A memory can [flesh] the needling bone,
Unravelling, [forgotten] rags of stone.