West Yorkshire Apples

 https://www.rightmove.co.uk/properties/127309028?utm_campaign=property-details&utm_content=buying&utm_medium=sharing&utm_source=copytoclipboard#/&channel=RES_BUY

I don’t know why I think of it,

But when I see a photograph

Of Heptonstall or Hebden Bridge,

I think of how the apples taste,

Grown on ground of some hard ridge,

Of peaty moor and stony waste,

And how the sun goes out of sight,

Behind the hills at some young hour,

And almost taste their deep-green sour.

And how I cheer myself and laugh

To think I live upon the plain,

Where children dwell beneath a sky

Where sun, once up, can then remain,

Pouring down its ripening light,

It's kindly warmth or burning heat,

Unless it's covered by a cloud,

That takes its time in drifting by,

And how the apples seem to crowd

On ancient trees and look as bright

As they are sweet.

And like them, feel the need to cleave,

 And know I never wish to leave.