Saturday, 9 August 2014

A reflective look at some of the fantastic photographs taken on our walking workshops - with four more submissions.

The Building

Near the ferry terminal is the ice cream kiosk with sloping roof.  Out of sight, is a sloping roof at the rear, of concrete. The roof at the rear one can walk on. This gives a view across the bay and estuary. The steps that lead up the side of the kiosk to the hidden viewpoint are famous. They are known as “the John Lennon steps”.  I think the famed Beatle was brought here on family holidays when young. To find, play, and jump off, this secret roof space, onto the sands of the Ferry Beach or to dream while taking in the peace of the view, is a joy to a child now, the same as to John Lennon age 9.

David Conroy


Washed up, salted and dried out.
A fading beauty, over exposed,
curled up at the edges by searing sun
through cold, lonely nights. 
Surfed in by an easy wave,
stranded in the rock pool.
I try to climb out.
Almost made it,
the tide was against me,
sweeps in too often.
Tumbles me back into the pit. 
I crave comfort from the sea,
reclamation by the tide.
Deep briny darkness calls me home.  
Adele V Robinson


Walk Of The White Lady
Footsteps echo, crunch and turn
Talk a walk and let us learn…
River swirl, let it fall
As the White Lady begins to call
Shadows of a distant past
Let my love so sweetly last
I see the church, a painted spire
Like earth’s core my heart on fire
Ring that bell a faraway chime
Strike and bellow let it rhyme
Sodden to the very core
Let it rain – begin to pour
As the wet starts to spray
Tractors lift, bring in the hay
A hawthorn bushy full in flower
Our walk is done within the hour 
Pam Tufnell

The Net Weaver’s Cottage
Board-blinkered windows smother out the light.
Squeaking screws squeezed sunshine out that day.
When steel lock clacked down for the final time,
the sand-whipped lime-wash would not fade away.
Integrity of cobbles could not rest
and grew through tarmac’s crumbling, tenuous grip.
Discarded coils of hemp, an empty nest
dreamt its weave with sea foam at its lips.
What fate befell the rough and clever hands.
whose left thumb wore this sneck to golden gleam,
whose skin snagged workings clinched the trawler’s land
in mining Irish water’s living seam?
What grit is left of pearl tales partly told,
imprisoned in jet and frozen in the cold? 
Heather Taylor


No comments:

Post a Comment

Are you enjoying the photographs and submissions that are posted on this blog. We are funded by Arts Council England and would be grateful for your feedback. If you are reading our blog overseas can you please tell us where you are located and how you came into contact with us.