THE WEAVERS POEM,                
Leaning on Heavy Gate  Farm,
I am neither Ten-ant,
Nor Land Owner,
For I am the Weaver,
Where Streams ‘n’ Rivers flow,
Silver in their fortune,
Between Tors ’n’ Meadows,
A tapestry  that is,
Telling of Ores,
Once Mined deep,
               Beneath,
 
Songs,
Where Granite is Grey
For I am the Weaver,
Now Spinning my Yarn,
See here  the Buzzard flies,
Where Carpet is green,
And Carpet is Purple,
Blessed with Yellow,
Strands now Woven,
Just as my Hands,
              Pull the Weave,
 
So Moor land Town’s, 
Houses ‘n’ Minds,
Are closed to View. 
Within their  Season,
Just when Crosses Stand Tall,
Circling in a Row,
For  I am the Weaver,
Spinning my Yarn,
Like Sheep that are lost,
When Cloud is low,
Ponies Bray,
Telling of  a different Story.