Up on our own blueberry hill, in the throes
Of Buxton water
You held my hand, laid me down
I told you, of my daughter
There so clear we thought her to have done so well
To have fairly reached; no fear
That time so near, I hear your laughter
The song to be blessed, by one so dear
The early summer streams, cold water falls over
The white, uncovered toes
Beneath a stone-arch bridge, in turned up trousers
Where hardly anyone now goes
With the sunlight flickering through the silver reeds
And the moorland’s distinctive past
Where on that afternoon, before the evening moon
Our love, our love took fast
