The Barnsley Poem by Ian McMillan

The day begins​

In this town ​

that has so much to offer​

So let’s get going​

Let’s explore;​

Let’s unfold the map​

And find our way around​

This place of possibilities​

Of yesterdays, todays​

And tomorrows,​

Always tomorrows.​

Let’s get out there​

And discover​

Our people and our places​

Our natter and our faces​

Our lovely Barnsley spaces 

Here is our box of light,​

Our lighthouse, illuminating​

Books and virtual worlds,​

Lighting the way​

To speaking volumes.​

Step into our museums,​

Our galleries; bring the kids​

Then they’ll bring you​

Then you’ll bring them​

Again and again​

To encounter Barnsley’s stories:​

When our pits dug the coal -​

That powered the world​

When our glass held the light​

Like a window in a church​

When our iron was tested for strength​

And never failed​

And our linen was prized​

All over the world​

Meet those people from the past​

Who look like you​

And who dreamed like you do​

And who laughed like you do. ​

Go to a gig or a show;​

In that audience you’ll find treasure​

You never knew was there​

And you’ll wend your way home​

With Barnsley stardust in your hair​

And here is the edge​

The cutting edge​

Where the net spreads wide​

And catches us all​

And lets us go​

Transformed​

Into tomorrow​

And here’s another cutting edge​

Where the moors meet the sky​

And the air is so clear​

It’s like a mirror​

And you can see yourself walking further​

Than you ever thought you could.​

Reservoirs shining in the Barnsley sun​

And a bird of prey turning and wheeling:​

Outdoors is the room,​

The air is the ceiling.​

And this is real life​

in the strongarm wind. ​

And here is landscape with designs on itself;​

A splendour of ideas brought to life​

In gardens and lakes and parks​

Made by people,​

For people,​

For all time.​

And there is birdsong,​

Always birdsong,​

And it’s not just the birds that sing:​

We all do.​

Listen to the Ponty End​

Roaring like the Locke Park lions.​

Listen to the scores piles up:​

The goals, the runs, the tries,​

The memories of Dorothy’s medal,​

Of the great Tommy Taylor​

And Mark Jones​

Gone too soon​

And Dickie Bird’s finger,​

Perpetually raised​

And those endless fields of Sunday morning dreams,​

Where we can be​

Who we want to be​

And the crowd goes wild​

At least once a game​

Sometimes twice​

Before half time ​

You can cross Barnsley​

Any way you like:​

You can walk, You can run, You can take the bike​

You can ride a horse, You can ride a bus, You can take a train​

That seems to fly Over Penistone viaduct And its elegant shadow​

Then you could swim, You could splash, Fifteen hundred lengths​

Or a five-yard dash​

And why don’t you just have a minute?​

There’s no need to rush; No need to push and shove​

Sit and have a coffee And revel in the fact​

That everybody calls you love​

And now the evening is waiting, The evening is ready​

And as the sun goes down, And the moon gets up​

It’s time for a laugh, And a dance, And a sup​

And as midnight approaches, ​

There’s only one thing Left to say​

It’ll soon be the start​

Of another Barnsley day…​

Let’s go…​

Because here there are tomorrows, Lots of tomorrows,​

Always tomorrows.​

See you soon.​

Maybe tomorrow.​

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