Between Seven Hills

 Sitting here, staring out across the industrial wastelands,

From my bolthole above the traffic, a wandering I shall go,

Over the railway tracks to the suburbs on the hill; 

To those distant twinkling streetlights, just beyond the mill.   

 

The puddles stream into my boots, lucky, they didn’t cost me dear,

No wonder it’s raining, has been for most of the day;

In fact, probably will for the rest of the year,

But then, I doubt they’ve ever had it any other way.     

 

From one great building to the next, slowly falling into disrepair,

How they could tell a tale, of foundries, steelworks and life;                       

And of all those who once gathered there,

How unrecognizable now, what sorrow, what strife.

 

Yet the city hums to the tune of a new beat,

The old guard? Beneath the boardwalk they must meet,   

The young, bold, brash, for they now walk the street;

With their art and their culture, they have the world at their feet.

 

From Shoreham Street I go, down the Lane to Abbeydale;

Across the Don to Wicker and from there I shouldn’t fail,

No finer collection of people, from across the world they hale;

To that great city of Sheffield – now please sir, go grab an ale!