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High Motorway

High Motorway

The Pennines split the country sliced and crossed
By the new main east west road, the high M62,
Linking counties, nearing bits of Bronte land,
As it loops and cuts its path way through.
Joining Yorkie and Scouse land, passing
The motorway metropolis, so driving at night
The near linked conurbations form for miles
Either side an almost continuous ribbon light.

I like driving it in the darkness hours
But during the day heading east to west
This comfortingly safe stretch of road
Becomes, to me, just bearable at best.
Saddleworth Moor seems to loom from afar
Always seeming cloud overhung, stark, bleak,
Its dark moorland and millstone grit not being
The type of scenery I would willingly seek.

There are bodies, lost children,
Killed by that notorious pair
Who hid the last remains of  
Their tortured victims there.
Can evil can be caught and held
So it seems to fill the day?
I know no English place
That affects me in this way;

I can taste the foreboding feeling
That seems to hang and last
Until the moor is well and truly
A part of that journey's past.
I try to forget that
At the end of the day
Saddleworth Moor
Is my only return way.

To me it will always be
A grey accursed ground
Right until the last of those
Lost bodies can be found
And by their discovery
And release
Maybe bring that moor
An air of peace.

Then the High Motorway progresses;
Saddleworth Moor is passed and gone.
Soon the power stations loom
That signal the approaching A1,
The old Great North road to Scotland,
And London travelling to the south.,
But pass that and over Bootnferry Bridge
To Hull and home at the Humber Mouth

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