Friday, 15 August 2014

We look forward to the launch of our Walking on Wyre publication with a ripple of excitement. Here are four more from participant pens.


Wyre Way ...Coast to Hambleton

First we take the tram…
It used to go clackety,clack, but now it's silent as a vow
Except for the robot voice that tells us brusquely, “hold tight now”.
Smoothly we glide past shops, through the town
Heading west, Fleetwood bound.
Passing by pastures still - looking north, see the mill?
Rossall Beach, Rossall School, Fisherman's Friend (they're not cool!)
At terminus we take the ferry…
Backing slowly from the pier
Heading for Knott End - ever so near!
A majestic mini cruise across the Wyre,
But here no need for formal attire!
So our walk begins :-
Up the jetty, towards the cafe,
Let's stop now and have a coffee!
Refreshed at last and striding out
Follow the river. Is the tide out?
Across the golf course and to the hall-
Beware now walker of a rogue ball!
'Wyre Way' the signposts say.
Follow closely keep this way.
Around the fertile fields we trek
Upon the embankment – “mind your step!”
Keep lookout for migrant birds,
For geese graze here in hungry herds.
Cross the stile - up we go
(Waiting for the rather slow)
Past caravans lined up in rows
Where the lane to Staynall goes.
Hemmed in by hedgerows nicely thick
Now amble here and not so quick-
For the smaller birds dwell in these
Singing tunefully to please.
Look across the river and stop awhile,
See the Country Park - why it's only a mile!
It's not far now to Hambleton
Where we catch the bus into town.
So don't delay, don't despair
By Wardleys Creek - we're almost there!
Boats tightly drawn to hug the shore,
Only half a mile, no more.
At last, through the houses, past the pub,
Catch the bus --home -- ahh! hot tub…

Kathleen Curtiss



Cherestanc VI
Nothing’s duller than accounts from farms
a thousand years ago, but open Domesday:
there, above the name of Cherestanc,
sits a roman VI, the count of carucates,
the tract of land an oxen team could plough
and, even now, September’s morning mist
will cling to Garstang’s water meadows
like a skin of bovine breath condensing.
Norman Hadley

Wyred For Sound [Stanah Country Park]
From above the thread of stream
silent yet sibilant sidles seaward
Skippool and Wardley's wresting
the shake snake-handled sidewinder.
Over there is where Illawalla dressed
in Hindu glamour as Mumbai let us
dream we were briefly Maharajahs
John Travolta-ing for Saturday Night 
Shebas sashaying mouthing medleys.
 C J Heyworth


Wooden noses point to shore
sand grasping hulls
movement halted
salt water returns
waves parting rigid ranks
they tug at their leashes 
Lindsay Mulholland





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