In West Yorkshire's fold of hill and rail,

a town wakes where waters sail,

Shipley, where stone and story meet,

Its pulse in mills, its bones in sheep.

It began in ease, a meadow wide,

where sheep once wandered, unsupplied.

Named from wool and wooded grace,

a clearing inscribed in nature's face.

Rivers turned, and tranquility fled,

the forge of industry rose instead.

Smoke stitched prayers into the sky,

and looms sang futures passing by.

Then Salt, with hands both firm and kind,

built homes where heart and labor bind.

Not for profit, but for peace,

He dreamed of a world where toil could cease.

Past and present walk as one,

beneath the sky, beside the sun.

And still the Aire, in quiet streams,

carries Shipley's woven dreams.