Ambleforth

In Ambleforth, I’m sure you’ll know,
they don’t have any words for snow.
The bakery sells only books
and libraries are staffed by cooks.

In Ambleforth, that strange old town,
where time runs backwards, up is down.
Dead leaves float up into the trees
then reattach and turn bright green.

In Ambleforth, that magic place,
where clocks have eyes but not a face.
A window’s view is never certain;
no wall is seen without a curtain.

In Ambleforth, whose narrow lanes,
are wide enough for landing planes.
They’ll welcome you with folded arms
and offer steak from vegan farms.

In Ambleforth, that town of chance,
where picnics chase down packs of ants.
‘Hello’ means ‘So long, goodbye’,
December sun warms like July.

In Ambleforth, that unique land,
where surprise parties must be planned.
Townsfolk go home to camp out,
then visit libraries to shout.

In Ambleforth, that scenic spot,
where water’s dry but land is not.
And where, as I am sure you’ll know,
they don’t have any words for snow.