Preface
There
are many things special about northern Britain – its coastlines and estuaries,
its moorlands and mountains, its history and landmarks, its varied cultures and
people. This compilation is in part, an attempt to capture some of that
atmosphere and feeling, perhaps best appreciated after spending a few weeks or
months abroad!
Contents
Page
Great Spirit of the North – haiku-style 4
- 10
A Gathering of Ancient Tribes
A Sense of Place 11
Of My Country 11
Island People 12
Memory of Stones 12
High Place 13
Rock Song 13
Wolf 13
Walking the Horseshoe 13
Prisoners 14
In Respect of Walking 14
Islands of the Whales 15
Hoy 15
Puffins 15
Skara Brae 15
Iona 16
Night Fires 16
Stone Cross 16
Columba 17
Ebb Tide 17
Hill Country 17
Rannoch Moor 18
The Quarry 18
Up on the Moor 18
Fieldfares 19
Celtic Rain 19
The Woods at Night 19
Beyond the Falls 20
Mountain Worship 20
Trekking 21
Thistles 21
Northern Shores 21
Fog Over Whitby 22
Ghost Fishing 22
A Yorkshire Dale 22
Fogbound 23
Mersey Ferry 23
Nellie Clarke 24
Old Streets of Tranmere 24
Hard Times 25
Crop Circles 25
Tracks Across the Shore 25
Red Squirrel 26
The Teacher 26
Shoots 26
Paddling in
the Lakes – haiku-style 23 - 35
Rydal Water 36
Picnic by the Lake 36
Daffodils 36
I Wandered Lonely 37
Scafell 37
Rhyader 38
Thurstaston Shore 38
Hilbre 38
Two Trees 39
Rats 39
Flaming Dune 40
Tidemark 41
The Old Pier 41
Old England 41
Blacksmith 41
Iron Men 42
Britannia’s Children 42
Miners 42
Oriental Delight 43
Jubilee Street 43
Stella and her Umbrella 44
Fairy Christmas 44
Our Town 45
Going Home 47
Her Majesty 47
Fine Dining in Blackpool
48
On the River 48
Within these Hills 49
Pathways 49
Spiders 50
Our Queen 50
Great
Spirit of the North
mountain stream tells all
an everlasting tale, the
story of its life
pure mountain water
trickles from its granite bed
to tingle my throat
hush – the water
is speaking gurgling trickling
– just being itself
this chaos of boulders
floating in cloud that has
swallowed the sun
damp greyness of cloud
ghostly chill swallows the ground
our thoughts are stood upon
climbing to the peak
emerging into sky
at the top of the world
Stac Pollaidh
wearing a scarf of mist today
to match your witches hat
open mountain road
writhes through the sunlit glen
in ecstasy
over booming heather
midges dance in the air to
encourage us on
sea of mist
invader of the coastal lands
sucked up by the sun
squalls of white insects
snowclouds reflect the city
deep in silent night
no need for words
walking the familiar path
enhancing the silence
that fresh mountain smell
juniper, pine, myrtle and thyme
no words – just breathe
after the rain
deep breathing of misty air
scents of the forest
only swirling mist
deep silence of the forest
finding my soul
mountain path
hugs the lapping lakeshore
in love with autumn
trekking the wild hills
my mind and eyes wishing they
could leave my body behind
view from the height
scatters worries to the wind
blown back moments later
in nostalgic mood
this intoxicating land
air and water seem sweeter
with harvest home
the first frost has appeared
blood month
stumbling by starlight
familiar daytime paths keep
my eyes in my feet
new landscape pure, bright
in that silent moment I
fell in love with snow
closing my eyes
for the first time I hear the
wind buffet my hood
invisible plane
drone fading to nothing
accentuates the silence
watching the motion of flight
I take to the air myself
spirit wild and free
slipping into autumn
an arrowhead of wild geese
following the sun
seals sing a lament
to the weather-beaten island
rusting in the bay
riding through sunlit woods
air sharp in my lungs
breathing in the frozen grass
caught in the open
sullen black rain that invades
body, soul and lunch
lights along the shore
mountains withdraw into the
incomplete black of night
St George’s Hall
graceful walls touch pure blue
sky
suddenly a silver jet
swallows sweep the sky
village green scrubbed and
church-proud
- no ball games allowed
buzz of the assembly room
waiting to be summoned -
this poem emerges
night walk to the sea,
alas to behold the
blinding of the stars
monstrous walls and towers
prison or sanctuary
does it matter still?
weary descent from the tops
softly moan the ash trees-
rooks still bickering
pleasant to me the
breath of the low sun trying
to read my poem
with birds of the wild wood
good to feel my old boots
rambling
the muddy paths of spring
in misty sunrise
ancient grasses whisper greetings
from the past
day on the mountain
wet skin, cracked knees, bruised toes
but that soup by the fire
January grey
thumbing through the brochures
in search of summer
lost on a bare mountain
light fades, cold wet cloud
night fears awaken
track emerging from the fog
startled but glad to see
that farmhouse light
fingers numb with cold
face melting into hot tears
her first touch of snow
electric mountain
frees us from the cycle of the sun
valley still awake
my open mind
a flowing river of memory
where do they all go
out on the island
skylark sprinkling notes that fall
in the palm of my hand
creatively futile
born under naked moonlight
a crop circle
a light
across the bay
quarters the dying day so
the sea at last can sleep
through
snow-patch mountains
standing stones
pointing skywards
to a distant
past
at every moment
it seems demons and angels
rest on our shoulders
giggling children
call hello then run away
bravery tested
a distant tractor
corrugating the fields
first sign I’m not alone
my room – quiet and still
as it listens and
reflects on my thoughts
these roads and rivers
summer paths and autumn hills
make a map of my life
my friend the moon
even when you’re gone
you always return
beneath the trees
cool moist air
unloading my worries
walking these paths with you
living on your love
organic food
in
morning mist
ghostlands
of ridge and furrow
one step
from dying
lapwing – keeper of secrets
frozen in the driving rain
lost in secrets of his own
A
Gathering of Ancient Tribes
A SENSE
OF PLACE
The names of places last
as evidence of
the former presence of
submerged peoples,
recall the talk of forgotten firesides,
forgotten tribes
about the integrity of the world.
Like a stream babbling
among the northern mountains,
they spoke a strange tongue
that would rise with the sun
and fade to sleep beside their dying fires.
They spoke of food and shelter and livestock,
of places to defend and worship
and all around them through forest
and plain having come to rest and tamed
the shores of this unknown land
the names of their places flamed.
OF MY COUNTRY
In my head I have carried a map
learned through childhood
when I was often tested.
In the end I felt I knew the way
wherever I needed to go.
Distances now are real
directions more certain -
though means and motives
appear to collide with the past
troubling my heart,
bringing confusion,
questioning the borders of my
country
in my mind.
ISLAND PEOPLE
Those who live on small islands
set their eyes to
scan the horizon -
somewhere to rest their gaze
assured that
all is clear and in its place.
They see familiar lines and points and curves -
channel marker, sandbank,
promontory, light house,
know where the sun will rise or set,
the flyways of the birds.
Strong in ritual from repetition
obdurate and compact in the face of threat,
they move around each other
generating their own ripples
that oftentimes intersect
or rebound from
land they own and understand,
back to the far horizon -
everything proceeding at its own pace
in its own time – acceptance,
no recrimination, no regret.
MEMORY OF STONES
Molten outpourings
from depths of utmost confusion
confound comprehension of time
but preserve with magnetic logic
the keys to release the terror
and vastness
of their orogenesis
unfolding at the gates of hell,
forging an eternal coupling
of time and tumult
from which we inherit
the beauty and resonance of
stones.
HIGH PLACE
This high and lonely place
the meeting of stone and water
and air,
with little life of its own yet
completely indifferent to me.
ROCK SONG
Bare mountain
singing the same notes
for a thousand years –
eternal rock song.
WOLF
Rewilding
reconnecting
recreating a vision
restoring a balance
WALKING THE HORSESHOE
Somewhere ahead there was surely a path-
we could not have strayed too far
then deciding to rest by a cairn she said
‘Another fine mist you got me into!
And God knows, where’s the car’.
PRISONERS
Standing on a sea cliff
where sky and wind
and sun and wave
cast visions in burnished gold -
the only price we pay
our imprisonment
in this beauty we take as our
own.
IN RESPECT OF WALKING
Forever and everywhere
they have veined the earth:
paths visible and invisible
pulling the commercial spirit
drawing the sharp swords of enterprise
along river and seaway,
Ice roads and packhorse trails
the firesongs of holloways and pilgrim routes,
habits of a landscape.
Famine roads, corpse roads
coffin paths and ghost roads
anchored to the dead by slender threads
to this land that bore them
in silent pursuit of an impulse,
a secret origin,
onwards in space yet
backwards through indelible time
entranced, affirmed of the feel of ‘then’
the rain and sunshine of ‘then’
the hearts and minds of ‘then’
though scattered by these very paths
by which we spread, a diaspora
Illuminating thought
enhancing the means of knowing.
And so in ancient footprints
songlines guide us to the sea
where it all began
an invitation to re-enter
a realm of complex instincts,
pelagic knowledge
cold and wild.
ISLANDS OF THE WHALES
A necklace of pebbles these hallowed isles
wedded to the waves,
modest beneath their misty veil
their sacred heather sprinkled
with ancient dust blessed
by the winds and bright rings of eternity.
HOY
Clamorous crag and hammar
slabs of Silurian hang
like bronze bells booming over the heather;
the stone croft hunched like
an old man past caring,
molded by invisible hands
reworked, reborn
wiped clean on the skirts of time.
PUFFINS
I so want to see a puffin but they’ve all flown out to sea –
their cliffs are bare, there’s not one there,
so I’m going home for tea.
SKARA BRAE
Beneath the flow of misty veil
undressed by the furkling wave
sun-cut like liquid diamond
worn about your nakedness
we explore your womb-like places
hearth and grave Till
oyster-catchers flash their badge
and jab a beak as if to say:
Time for you to bid farewell
to the walls of Skara Brae.
IONA
Hammered by nails of ice
hurled from shafts of rain
Columba’s sheep lie,
sodden-fleeced
not stirring from their sweet
eternal pastures beneath
the shadow of the cross.
On a nearby shore
the turnstone sifts the pebbles
to the music of the crashing wave.
NIGHT FIRES
Just below the summit of the hill
timber dragged to the pyre
and amid the solemn chant of priests
a sudden burst of light
and shadows dancing against a wall of stone
reaching with the sparks into the darkness.
Then with the creeping of the dawn
burnt bone and hot ash collected
encasked to be handed back to the earth
beneath the dome of a solar shield.
STONE CROSS
You keep watch
on your knees in wild and waving grass.
No message from the bones at your feet,
forever dead;
save here was born
and here died,
and what lay between,
a life worthy of many tears
worthy of an epitaph
hacked out of stone.
COLUMBA
I listen in my head to the
chants and melodies of this place,
feel the call to walk the paths you trod
as we land upon your shores,
ponder the works and wars of
your age of inspiration - for it has been said
an honest man is the noblest work of God.
EBB TIDE
The sun tries to cling to the world
as a mother to her child,
pulls the evening tide towards her
laying the shoreline bare
with shining gold.
Curlew’s wings are tired of flapping,
lapping waves tired of slapping
settle down to listen
to flotsam stories
of lives at sea,
of timeless journeys over
the wildest imaginings of wave and air
and to lie here in the sand with you,
a story to tell to the tired sun,
for on the ebb tide beach
everything we retrieve
still has life.
HILL COUNTRY
These hills
sprinkled with gems of morning
where rivers rinse and swill,
bear the imprint of time’s endeavours
from wretched barn to the quarried face;
a place for penance perhaps, martyrdom,
a place for lovers of the wild wind,
a landscape of soul music,
of stepping stones along the path
to heaven.
RANNOCH
MOOR
This haunting place
this wild weather,
this spacious solitude, this beauty -
legacy of calamitous times
that lie with stone and heather.
THE QUARRY
Wind snarls like a beast
from a cloud-wrecked sky;
drizzle- spat curtains of moss
and lichen
shroud the crest of raw crag
gouged from unfathomable depths
of time.
At its dripping foot
fragments, split and fractured
tumbled from Innocent strata
reveal the foetal scars
of tooth and claw
of a curse
now restored to light
to stalk once more.
UP ON THE MOOR
I walk alone – the path is mine today, it seems,
as if the world had ended and
left this place to its wells and stepping stones,
its cairns and graves, huts and stone circles
the tumulescent mouldings and stone walls
ever -present in the very names and wreckage
of our species.
And yet though bred of the weather and bone of the hills
Man might be 1000 years away.
FIELDFARES
Daylight waning
A wave of fieldfares rolls backwards
Flashing silver underwings
Tumbling over the wind
And away.
CELTIC RAIN
Mossy stones
stacked like bones
point to
heaven, blackened by fire.
Time bids me
enter,
guides me
back through your gaping door
with feet
that once trod an abandoned floor
a low fire
smouldered and turf dried,
women toiled
while babes cried,
where men
fought and men died.
I touch your
rough and blackened stone
a stain that
all the celtic rain
won’t wash
away.
THE WOODS AT NIGHT
Be still
and listen some starry night
to the breathing of the trees,
the restlessness of small birds –
you may even hear
the movement of the midnight owl.
BEYOND THE FALLS
Spilling from a hidden womb
the sound like leaves in a constant breeze
that cannot keep its secrets,
showers of silver tokens
from a fairytale princess
catch the light and the clinging green
while great gouts from the storm
scour the rim and
blast the sleek slab
that shudders to the feet of giants
thundering at the foaming pool
where growling echoes swirl
and pound the ragged basin
trying to cut an end that might
even take to eternity.
MOUNTAIN WORSHIP
Following some deep ancestral need
that kneels in awe of bouldered heights
hooded or scarfed in mist
concealing buttresses and alcoves
sullen deep recesses, ledges and pulpits
where fleeing waters fly in the wind – the mountain,
oblivious to its own plutonic power
its core of moods and cruelties
that plunge as winged dragons
in pursuit of watersnakes
and small scurrying things,
slipping over fissures and hollows
astounding the eyes and
conjouring instincts for worship.
TREKKING
To climb, to trek
to know the hills as our own bodies
the exalted glow of well-being,
joyous release of body and mind
that grows in the feeding,
Borne on the rhythm of the way -
nothing to be said, just
to feel the spirit of life.
Nothing has reference to me –
neither fulcrum nor focal point,
not even destination –
just a heightened power of me, myself and the wild.
THISTLES
The windows of my leafless room
blink in surprise as I climb the misty path
towards the bristling pines.
Thistles by the wayside I could crush with my foot
breathe their scent
as I tear through wet grass
tramp in furrows of mud as
the wind howls through swirling cloud
breaks the bough upon
the damp fungal reek of earth.
The trees sigh and I hear myself laughing.
NORTHERN SHORES
From this cold shoulder
stern heads gaze watchful
to defy an ancient foe
that would dance with disaster
on the nabs and wykes
that burst from England’s ribs.
From this cold shoulder
ancient heads wildly stare…
calling Into the gale
that flays the flesh and splits the vein
all along the northern shores
that leave their children weeping.
FOG OVER WHITBY
Grey tattered curls of a witch
smother and wrap a chill
around the night,
a blinding spell cast on
narrow streets and snickets
by gnarled and bony fingers.
But she leaves me be,
no need of caution to come alive;
no need to dodge and weave -
for I am one with the quiet music
of the air
to proceed on my own terms.
GHOST FISHING
Shall we go ghost fishing far
beyond the harbour light
to feed off the memories of the
stars,
to spread our nets far though
we may never feel the bite?
Won’t you come ghost fishing on
such a starry night?
A YORKSHIRE DALE
Slanting light floats down the
valley
to mellow every feature of the
scene.
Rib-like walls of stone
built by thousands of unknown
hands
each stone selected to fit its
own space
to bind the hillsides to the
valley floor.
Twilight, and a frisson of the
coming dark,
smoke rising from blackened
hearths
to smoke the stars and
obscure the etchings of the land.
Lamps go on in home and farm
in church and the wayside inn
to reform the hills in glowing
lines of light
restoring thoughts and my calm.
FOGBOUND
Creeping through deck and
stanchion
cold clammy fingers bewitch the
swirling tide;
rope and chain lie coiled, waiting
as she looms ghostly towards her
berth.
Though I know her like my hand
I seek her name amid the raucous
gulls
a churning engine trying to clear
her throat;
I watch the Woodbine men, arms
like Popeye
wrestle creaking writhing pythons
into compliance, to hold her fast.
Soggy spills of last night’s Echo
lie guttered,
all attempts to blot this
watercolour day
abandoned.
Exasperated streetlights feebly
shine
hoping sunlight’s needle or
gushy breath from somewhere high
will disperse the pall and let
them sleep
while majestic birds with
spreading wings
rise proud above it all.
MERSEY FERRY
Where the river meets the sea
the tide runs fast and strong,
the flow of memory of father and
me
past this shore where we belong.
She glides the silver surf with
grace
peeling from her prow like skin,
folding into wavelets on the
tidal race
to flow away to where the winds
begin.
And now the quayside before me
lies,
marble halls and salty air,
where statues breathe and the seagull
cries
with no ropes or chains to bind
me there -
for I’ll not drift away again-
not till the day the big birds
fly.
NELLIE CLARKE
Rock Ferry street a long time ago
on a bitter night by gaslight glow.
Mist and smoke concealed his face.
In that coal damp street his assault took place.
She was walking for her familiar treat
along that cold and hard-faced street
that tried in dark its shame to hide
as she fought in vain the pain inside.
Found next morning with the dawn
upon her face sheer terror drawn
Slumped at the foot of an entry wall
No-one there to hear her call.
Constabulary at the scene -
the most heinous act they’d ever seen.
No description, no-one named,
no suspicions, no-one blamed.
The murderer was never found.
Now sixty years lain in the ground.
Time is memory’s neglected slave -
then yesterday a minor spark:
a bunch of flowers left on the grave
addressed : In memory of Nellie
Clarke.
OLD STREETS of TRANMERE
Traffic hissing through the streets,
gutters brim full, down-pipes
gagging on the flow
spewing like gossip onto the pavements
burbling news, minding p’s and q’s
on old streets where nothing has changed -
not since the bombs - fearful nights
when the shipyards were hit.
We caught the siren between gritted teeth
and dashed headlong for the shelter
praying for our tiny piece of Earth to be saved
praying for the dawn to show
and all those for whom the dawn never came.
HARD TIMES
From a distance you watched me
cheeks a-glow, bare-kneed
scrubbing grime and dirt
from freezing tiles.
Beyond the step
tough little raggy-arses
shamelessly throwing snowballs – not meant to hurt
– much;
Barrow boy passes pretending to flirt -
sees them all off with balls of his own!
Then I got back to those hot summer days -
places enshrined in my youth where
bare-chested young men dallied unashamed
unconcerned at catching the odd cough or sneeze -
they could have done a lot worse.
Now I’m getting long in the tooth;
Autumn breezes seem less kind;
still on my knees -just let me bask in the memory
of that warm summer breeze.
CROP CIRCLES
under naked moonlight
creations of futility
adorn the harvest.
TRACKS ACROSS THE SHORE
Ancient tracks on the shore
leading my own beside them,
prehistoric matching the present
remote yet intimate conjunction,
a story to be read in footprint
about the tidal pull of home
about survival
until its bed is swept away.
RED SQUIRREL
We come all this way just to see
you –
tufty red scrap,
nervously scampering,
picking up and scrutinizing,
nibbling then tossing away like a
petulant child.
Then as we fumble for cameras, you
flee -
up the nearest tree,
nervously scampering,
along the safety of a branch
from where
you just twitch and jeer,
it seems to me!
THE TEACHER
A silent magnetism from long ago people
draws me in, propels me
beyond the grave and unknown faces
to the sweat of moss-dripping walls,
the gate and boundary stone now stranded
leaning with the weight of time.
I scraped a channel with my casual boot
diverting a formless seeping
to a trickle to a rivulet
watching the ground drain of uncertainty
and a new clearer flow emerge
perhaps to become a main stream one day
long after I have become
one of the long ago people.
SHOOTS
Spring is shooting from the
forest floor.
I step carefully
allowing new life’s seed to
survive
but in reality they don’t need me
now
and never did before.
Paddling in the Lakes
hillsides awash
rivers in full spate
even the rocks are flowing
eons of rock sculpture
an infinity of cataclysms
here in my hand
keeping to the lake shore
listening to my thoughts and the
quiet talk of the waves
crusted dry-stone wall
rugged and seamless
as history
tribes from
the east
painting the
map of England
in damp
autumn colours
driving on
empty
the twisting
narrow night road
praying
we’ll make it
gaining the peak
in this chaos of boulders
clouds swallow the sun
pure mountain water
trickling from its granite bed
tingles my throat
wild wet Sunday
howling wind and hissing cars
lead the faithful to church
in this wild place
cushions of flower find no shelter
but in togetherness
highlanders bend
to the mountain’s way
shepherd heads for home
mist thickens on Fairfield
walking in a blind world
quickening the mind
slashing
rain
in a bookstore
haven
trying not
to drip everywhere
from a lakeside
view
steamer
glides like a queen
up to the
jetty
this wind pounding my walls
rattling my windows
trying to get in
long brisk hillwalk
-
surprised at
my aching legs
creeping old
age!
walking the fells
laughing, I can’t read the map
rain slapping my face
trudging uphill
my concentrated breathing
concentrated breathing
chuckling and swirling
beneath the packhorse bridge
the river can drink no more
icy bullets
spraying my hood but
a warm glow inside
knees
weakening fast
scrambling
up Stickle Ghyll then
suddenly –
the tarn
boulder to boulder
she wobbles across the beck
please God she won’t fall in
nearing the summit
struck by hammerblows of wind
the stonefields of Scafell
on Scafell Pike
a scramble
up the wind gap
fog over the
stonefield
up through fog that soaks
frays, whirls into tatters
and suddenly gone
high on the mountain
young girl climbs to the stonefield
ice in her veins
the mountain grows dark
I listen to his growling voice
and quickly descend
that girl we saw
on the high mountain track
she’s here, by the fire
day of hard rain
plodding mud of the final mile
at last the village lights
beneath the cedar
twitchy fawn watch my approach
then run
walking fields and by-ways
with you, living on your love
organic food
looking from the hill track
to the village roofs below
curling chimney smoke
high windswept plateau
trees straining to flee the wind
but the rocks won’t let go
this cold tiny beck
burbling and whispering
with the voice of a child
this cold little beck
tumbling and falling
wriggling through the earth
on rain-lashed hillside
chilled to the bone
curling smoke asks ‘why?’
in from bitter cold
my poor frozen fingers can’t
unfasten my coat
once pretty village
birds twitter by the shattered bridge
ravaged by the flood
slowly, slowly
chattering teeth and bones tell me
I‘m falling into ruin
shrouded in mist
pines heavy with rain
the quietness of death
first buds of spring
snowmelt drips in diamonds
from the naked branches
I slipped and fell
my knees stinging and raw
mountain doesn’t care
desperate for a pee
I find a sheltered cleft
mountain doesn’t mind
daylight
closing in
moonlight
hidden by the clouds
they’re calling
off the search
a ride through sunlit woods
breathing in the frosted grass
air sharp in my lungs
sprinkling of morning diamonds
how the
autumn grass sparkles
where they
found her
soft wind
through the grasses
every breath
like a prayer
to keep me
here
my lonely camp fire
deep in thought provides
food for body and soul
blustery
coalsack sky
blasts of
icy needles –
suddenly a
shaft of sun
abandoned
survivor
the oak
tries to follow
the path of
the wind
beneath ruined walls
the remote past lingers
forgetfulness in the air
the presence
of landscape
longing each
form and smell and sound
to possess
and to share
damp grey
cloud of winter
as hay bales
break open a
breath of
summer sun
abandoned shaft
where they chiseled out their lives
following the vein
nature’s
symphony
ripples over
stone and cobble
water music
winter hills
nature’s
chance to be alone
just the
wind and solitude
without warning
winter has once more gripped
a hold of the land
here was
born a lamb
in the not
so innocent snow
here is
where it died
weathered survivors
through the hard months of winter
they have earned this spring
washing in
the river
putting ice
in the veins
never more
alive
jack jack
jackdaw
flitting
from wall to wall we
eye each other suspiciously
wanted for murder
ravens, rooks and magpies
a cartridge crack echoes
ducks
squabble and waddle
chasing the
bread thief
of the Damson
Dene
frozen lake
but
the swan is floating
in
his own pool
of water
mallard slips on landing
regaining composure asks
‘where has my reflection gone?’
that final journey
the heaving and groaning
along the coffin route
lost in trackless fog
fear lodging ever deeper
till the sound of voices
crazy puppy
skittering
on the ice
children
calling out
crunching
frost lingers
while bright
sun concentrates
on her paintbox
colours
you have escaped
to a lonely place alone
so rest awhile
the weight
of our feet
setting
stones in motion
skittering
down slope
stopping for
breath
our bodies
soon chilling
biting
through our clothes
summer migrants returning
empty valley starts to fill with sound
spring - arrived at last
brilliant
frosty morning
we hear the
distant hounds
singing of a
fox
across the
sloping ground
a fiery
orange arrow
glows in the
morning sun
RYDAL WATER
Boulders hunched like old folk
draw close their cloaks of sun-soaked moss
and comment on the speed of flow these days:
how things have changed in the last ten thousand years.
But the young burbling stream pays no mind –
busy texting ripples to the universe.
PICNIC BY THE LAKE
Crackling gunfire from my paperback
ricochets through the forest
skims out across the placid lake
to the smiling purple hills.
A chainsaw rips my pre-packed sandwich
exposing beds of tuna and cucumber
noduled with sweet corn
while flies buzz jealously.
The wind sighs mild disapproval
and goldcrest in the rowan
twits and flits away
to find some quieter fare.
So glancing back at the scowling firs
I know it’s left to me
to regret my brash intrusion,
and eat my lunch less noisily!
DAFFODILS
In soft hissing rain
blown on gusts of sunshine,
spatters the path, soaks the
graves
droplets spreading like blood,
bending the heads of daffodils
attempting to read the mason’s
work
as in ragged platoons they guard
against the final blast of winter
-
the nameless and the named,
the fameless and the famed,
each worthy of every moment
we would stand in silence with
the daffodils.
I WANDERED LONELY
I wandered lonely along the road
then through this gate where daffodils growed
and you was wiv me and I was going to pick one
but decided not to bother - instead I just kicked one.
I said, seen one daff , you‘ve seen ‘em all
as we walked through the woods wiv me kickin’ me ball.
When we got to the end of the field there’s this fence
and round about then I was feeling a bit tense
so I lit up a ciggie and said lets go back -
there’s a pub in the village - I could do wiv a snack.
So we goes back down the path wiv me kickin me ball
down to the road wiv the gate in the wall
and there’s this geezer wiv a dog, and listen to this
the geezer, not the dog, is ‘avin’a piss
and I says, that ain’t right mate - they’re special these flowers;
old ladies come from miles and often spend hours
smelling and painting by their beauty inspired
and then they goes home all dewy-eyed and tired.
Then you come along and start cocking your leg
and your dog’s no bloody better - what’s she called, Meg?
Nice dog, but you should set an example, show some respect
so if you don’t leave now, mate, I will not neglect
my civic duty to inform the law hereabout
of this drunken old git who behaves like lout.
He mumbled summat about me being a gonner
and it’s just about then that he gave me a clout,
yeronner!
SCAFELL
Some-one who would be famous has
pinched off our mountain the topmost inch –
some-one who wouldn’t flinch
from robbing every peak from here to the Minch
possessed by some acquisitive rock devil
who’d see our fair mountain reduced to sea level.
RHYADER
They worshipped the spirits of the air
the forest and the stream,
listened to the same music of the sky
the trickling rills, the roaring water
the sighing breeze
secretly embedded in their landscape
that remembers still but will not tell.
THURSTASTON SHORE
Takes to flight,
Calling after the ebb tide
Like a forgotten child.
Curlew struts the salt -marsh
edge,
That stretches into an infinity of
light
Sure of purpose in his scheme of
things.
And the salt and the mud
And the mayflower scent
Linger on an evening breeze,
While the drifting clouds no ill
will brings.
We gaze from our rock,
Our timeless stone upon the shore;
Vexations waft like mist
As the debris of life’s tide
drowns and sinks.
The canopy of light folds as it
should
A lonely cry to the setting sun
As surely as night when day is
done.
HILBRE
On St Hildeburgh’s Isle you can taste the wind
Hear the low call of the seal
Run your hand over eons of time and feel
the breath of peace from the beginning of things
Drifting up from the voice of the cave
To the skylark lost in blue - close by – but invisible.
TWO TREES
Old survivors
Forgotten scraps of nature
Shivering like withered hags
With nowhere to go
Heads bent in an icy blast
That howled through the sockets of sightless faces.
They huddle against the brutal surge
That has reduced all hopes to wasteland.
Now they’re just waiting for the end.
This was the first poem I ever wrote
(that I can remember) – in 1970, shortly after going to live as a student in
Manchester. It is about the demolition of the terraced streets of Moss-side and
along with all that destruction, the ruination of people’s hopes, especially
the elderly, as promises were broken. The replacement housing left a lot to be
desired.
RATS
Wagons no longer enter here,
the yard quiet as a tomb
in a graveyard of hopes.
The shackled gates lock out a silent sadness;
railings once secured a modest dream
now a splinter in the past
caught on rusty wire
still bleeding after all these years.
Once he caught a rat – there,
behind the store.
Now the rats run free.
Windows barred, workers barred;
weeds have taken over, splitting the flags
loosening the mortar of a forgotten community.
Kestrel nests in the chimney,
bats echo in the still dank darkness
of the machine shed.
He turns away
shoulders sagging under invisible burdens,
kicks a rusted can of worms;
thirty years of memory – nothing more
in his back pocket, remembering
how once he caught a rat behind the stores,
licking their fortunes - now the rats run free.
FLAMING DUNE
A bit of relaxation, that’s all I ask,
warm and sheltered by the sea,
a chance to rest, read a book
means all the world to me.
But when I make my sun-kissed nest
in hope to go nice and brown,
needles of spiky grass
stick in my ass
and won’t let me sit down.
Sea holly prickles, wavy grass tickles
and there are dogs all over the place.
You can’t lie down
with them snuffling around
or worse – they could wee on your face.
Sand in my butty - I must be nutty
and now there’s sand in my hair;
it gets on my tits
when your private bits
get itchy and people just stare.
The agony lasts, a radio blasts –
some tubthumping rubbish quite near
and though I abhor it
and try to ignore it
it’s causing me headaches severe.
You might say ‘This is magic’ - I’m thinking it’s tragic -
get more peace going home on the bus;
‘Just lie down and rest, you say -
at least there’s no work today,
so stop moaning and making such fuss.’
There’s a dad playing cricket and thinks I’m the wicket
as a ball whizzes past my ear;
the outfielder tuts
as he dives on my nuts
and the rest of the team raise a cheer.
There’s kids flying kites – like I haven’t got rights
just to catch me a few little rays.
Would I like an ice cone?
Bog off, leave me alone….
sorry, just having one of those days!
TIDE MARK
Sun-baked sea weed, the tang of pre-history where we all came from and
to where we all return.
THE OLD PIER
In a confusion of struts and
spars
once more she awaits the rising
tide -
awaits the return of her man, gone
too long
who left in the age of sail with
the promise of a kiss.
She watches the waterfront slough
its skin
trading new lives for old
but now with failing strength
abandoned, forgotten, lies barbed
and twisted.
As the rising tide once more
slaps her knees and creeps up her
thighs,
to the horizon she cranes her
neck and sighs.
OLD ENGLAND
Ploughman of the heavy horse
of oak and leather and cider,
the slow turning of every year
makes time to lie beside her.
BLACKSMITH
He can remember the old days – days of his forebears,
of lore passed down since domesday,
his craft forged of life with strength and purpose;
a man of his blood, hammering ploughshare and horseshoe
on the anvil of time.
Now lying with the crucifixion nails - over three score and ten,
among the flints of the field,
his work time holy and word spoken concerned but the season,
in a language all but dead.
IRON MEN
Across the bay iron men stare
fixated by the whirling blades
that catch the winds
that catch your hair
as you gaze with them
just standing there.
BRITANNIA’S CHILDREN
Britannia,
chipped from native rock
roughly hewn from solid oak
fed on iron rich soil,
your heart now skips a beat.
Old timbers strain to bear
your weight of fears;
your children,
raised on visions from picture books
Joust with blind men on dark streets,
running with the wolves
into a darkness of their own making.
They have invented their own fire
blown flames into the night sky
showering us all in sparks and smoke -
Britannia burning in her sleep.
MINERS
Miners vanish into the hillside
merging with the rock and geological time
cutting down through accumulations of time
to exploit hidden stocks of former worlds
to emerge
having lent bone and sinew
adding energy to planetary forces and
with enhanced understanding
and love for the stone –
or hatred of its demands.
ORIENTAL DELIGHT
rain softly sprays the silent
streets.
Stragglers from the late train
scurry
through a night too cold, too
damp
unseduced by the steamy window,
the golden neon glow
But oh! The mystic finger beckons
invades my nostrils, prods my
appetite -
whiffs of herb and spice
beansprouts and rice
from the inner glow of the
Oriental Delight.
JUBILEE
STREET
in his bright yellow van –
polished shoes, suit and clipboard.
He lit a cigarette outside her window
stood back, narrowing his eyes, blowing
blue smoke into the air as if it was a skill,
flicking ash as a warning to the breeze;
he was a gunslinger surveying the cobbled street
before a duel.
He turned, stared at my door -
my door stared back like my godmother, arms folded-
and watched as slowly he strode the potholes,
rotted teeth, unable to articulate the stresses of the past.
The weeds have had time but
not time enough to grasp their freedom.
A steel ball bites the blitz-hard brick;
chimneys topple leaving ghostly rectangles of space in the sky,
and a century of memories
splintered
dust rising from a cradle like smoke.
From her doorstep she watched him drive away –
job number ticked, cigarette cast aside,
crushed and smouldering somewhere
before choking out.
A shred of rose-petal paper settle
s like a snowflake in her hair,
From her cheek she strokes away a tear.
STELLA
AND HER UMBRELLA
I once saw our Stella
armed with her umbrella
off to meet her fella by the backstage door.
But she saw her boyfriend Peter,
not really there to greet her
but kissing best friend Rita and clearly wanting
more.
She pointed her umbrella
charged her former fella
stabbed at his capella and he crumpled to the
floor.
Rita started crying
apologised for lying
thought that Pete was dying in a pool of gore.
The two girls started fightin’
scratchin’, kickin’, bitin’
Pete got up like lightnin’ to escape the war,
wished he’d had a night in
never been so frightened
got a taxi to New Brighton and was seen no
more.
FAIRY CHRISTMAS
So we stood beneath the Christmas tree
to sing to baby Jesus
most enthusiastically –
just in case He sees us
but after ‘Twinkle Twinkle’
we heard a gentle crying - a voice said
‘I’m sorry, but I’m really really trying.
to balance here atop the tree
and listen to you sing enthusiastically -
bit of afraid of heights - somewhat
scary –
Strange, I know - I’ve got
wings- I’m a fairy.
But I’m getting upset, decidedly stressed –
I just want to join in and sing to my best.
Those high notes you just murdered,
Well I could’ve got ‘em
but it’s hard to concentrate
with a tree up your bottom!’
OUR TOWN
It was a new town
that grew town
a make us another brew town.
A nice town, a Price town
an I won’t tell you twice town.
A foggy town, a groggy town
a let’s chase that moggy town.
It’s a river town, a ferry town
a sailing up and down town.
A ship town, a sub town
a really lovin’ my grub town.
It’s a welding town, a drilling town
a funnelling, tunnelling milling
town.
A shared town, a spared town
a work at Cammell Laird town.
A detergent town, a convergent town
a completely re-emergent town.
A dangerous town, a strangerous town
an urban park rangerous town.
A quarry town,a sorry town
a love to be watching Corrie town.
A lager town, an ale town
a knock-off stuff for sale town.
An alley town, a pally town
a scally shilly shally town.
A U-boat town, a due boat town
a sometimes make a new boat town.
It’s a muggy town, a druggie town
a teenage pushing buggie town.
A mean town, a nark town
a pigeons in the park town.
A kind town, a generous town
a not kick you when you’re down town.
A slobs town, a yobs town
an ugly swearin’ gobs town.
A shopping town, a stropping town
a nosedripping, grasshopping, eavesdropping town.
A breezy town, a wheezy town
a loads of coughs and sneezy town.
A rich town, a poor town
a looking out for the lady next door town.
A fab town, a brill town
a windmill on the hill town.
A Rovers town, a blues town
a sometimes blow my fuse town.
A market town, a farmers town
a shopping in pyjamas town.
A crisp town, a spam town
a pizza, noodle and yam town.
An atheist town, a religious town
a twelve quays and four bridges town.
A clock town, a dock town
a made of sandstone rock town.
A bus town, a rail town
a mate who’s out on bail town.
A squirrel town, a Wirral town
some might claim a virile town.
A louse town, a scouse town
a weed farm in your house town.
A creative town, a migrative town
a world first innovative town.
A serious town, a silly town
an up and down humpy hilly town.
A priory town, a fiery town
a helping police with their enquiry town.
A flour town, a dour town
but in the end it’s our town.
GOING HOME
chill rising from my toes to my neck
but hey! What the heck! - I’m going home!
HER
MAJESTY
Although she’s only five foot two
She is our longest reigning monarch who
Has done what a Queen has to do
And will probably outlive both me and you.
FINE
DINING IN BLACKPOOL
we cunningly call it New Venue -
and are pleased to present to you
our brand new seafront menu:
Among the many starters
we’ve sundried tomatoes
cheese on toast with Worcester sauce;
chips with thousand island dressing
– no I’m
only messing
but egg and bacon butties – of course!
I recommend the salmon and
the honey
roasted gammon
the tapas and olives are a treat;
pizzas the size of bin lids – smaller ones for
kids;
though on portion size we’ll surely not be beat.
Moving on to mains with ingredients from Spain
fruits de mer and paella by the tonne;
lobster prawns and mussels,
optional sprouts from Brussels
and complementary vino when you’re done.
From the poor to the wealthy
we’re trying to be healthy
reducing excess flab on arse and hips;
so for this very reason,
even when it’s out of season
we’ll be using low cal oil to fry our chips.
Oodles of noodles and spaghetti that doodles -
inevitably some lands on the floor;
boatloads of gravy – enough to float the navy –
with reserves if you’re ever wanting more.
We’ll stock wigeon and pigeon,
soon as we get a fridge in –
seagulls we catch upon the shore;
if fish is your wish, the tuna’s pure delish
and we bet you’ve never tasted such before.
The shark fin, just try it –
fabulous
for a diet
roast it or toast it even grill it;
on lobster and eel we can do you a deal
and if there’s any left over we’ll chill it.
For an anniversary present –
though not as fun as plucking pheasant
in Blackpool is eating al fresco
and when the gulls begin to swoop
and drop things in your soup
there’s always the café down at Tesco.
ON THE RIVER
Like the willows by the waterside
she trails her fingers while
her shallow boat glides on
catching lozenges of sunshine,
gentle ripples sent to
tell the world she is here.
The turmoil in her wake will not last,
smoothed in an ounce of time –
temporary disturbance to the universal plan
when all the boats and trailing fingers will have
gone.
Within these hills I’d sit and gaze once more,
my way by peaks and ribbon lakes I’d find
and stay awhile though winter winds should roar
the track-ways overgrown and ill-defined.
Within deep dales with dazzling becks entwined
the farmhouse with its solid walls so sure
for centuries breathes this blessed air enshrined
within these hills I’d sit and gaze once more.
Before the hoary tops begin to thaw
and stone walls make a portraiture unsigned
the frozen path my bitten feet endure
my way by peaks and ribbon lakes I’d find.
Lakeland beauty never hard to find
though pain of age at times bites to the core
I’ll venture high and leave green dales behind
and stay aloft though winter winds may roar.
And so to warmth this land my moods restore
relinquished of those fears that drained my mind
from leaking boots and seams that once I wore
on track-ways overgrown and ill-defined -
within these hills.
PATHWAYS
The way of old paths –
to lead us between
away from, toward things,
passing landmarks to other places –
stiles, ruins, other paths,
shaped by what is travelling and how
through this tangled linear space
like a channel for floating a
preparation of new thought,
a fluid state of mind –
between, away from, toward
other people, other times, other places –
just a walk,
concentrating thought and feet
to join the rhythm of the past –
just a walk,
and we find ourselves
following the footprints of ghosts.
*
Where is this path
that concentrates my mind as well as my feet
through tangles of ash and birch
oak and hazel,
dense ranks of spruce
disguising my upward climb.
Suddenly a burst of landscape,
a suddenness of space and sky
lit by the uplifting sun
exposing a world at once huger in grace,
and at my feet, tumbling, invigorating
closer to the weather than to Man,
feelings of sacredness
symbiosis of Earth and Spirit.
SPIDERS
Baby spiders learning to survive
leaping into the unknown
from the dewy softness of a rose
their lives hanging by a thread.
OUR QUEEN
She has always walked among us,
close enough to touch and when
foreigners speak of her it is
with respect.
I feel pride and I walk taller.
Called by destiny and duty – no place for desire,
in her blood lies service not supremacy,
a driving force of example
not the example of force,
no coercive restraint, no vanities,
just immeasurable service to a people
whose love is deep,
whose respect is forever.
THE
GEOGRAPHY OF HOPE
built of their own time and space,
allow eyes to refocus, awed
by the sense of something larger,
outside ourselves,
remnants irrecoverable but
not yet lost completely, of
incalculable value to the
human soul craving forest and moor,
marsh and mountain, from ocean floor
to the untouchable heavens.
The ruined croft speaks
in weathered stone and blackened hearth,
the shallow graves of lives
wrested from bog and heather,
striving for mastery of wild places;
speaking also of time
to enter a trackless empire,
exploring the risks and the mind
measuring ourselves
on scales of human endeavour
and giving thanks to this land
to this gathering of ancient tribes
for its geography of hope.
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