Here come the poems - Wow Wow Wow!

Colour

There was no such thing as a colour.

There was colour.

It had shades of grey,

getting darker towards black and lighter towards white.

That was the sky.

My trousers were black.
 

There was no such thing as a colour.

There was colour.

It had strands of fawn,

getting brighter towards yellow and paler towards cream.

That was the shore.

My teeshirt was yellow.
 

There was no such thing as a colour.

There was colour.

It had leaves of olive,

getting fresher toward green and duller towards brown.

That was a hedge.

My fleece was green.
 

Why was my fleece simply green,

my teeshirt plainly yellow,

my trousers only black,

so monotone, so certainly a colour,

when all around me was no such colour?

I don’t know.

Stewart Connell

Garstang's Wyre.

If a river could talk what tales would it tell? Whose feet has it felt, tramping the sandy sides?

It watched, in flood and fallow, the building of the castle and flowed in silent witness as Cromwell laid it waste, musket shot and cannon ball peppering the shallows.

It yielded as bridges were built to cross it, ferrying merchants across silty waters, while further west Columbus spanned the ocean blue.

Mills sprang up on its banks, diverting the flow through a leat, while salmon leaped and ran to spawn further up. It selflessly gave itself to power the wheel whilst the clogs of the mill workers rang out on the cobbles on their daily commute.

Further along, generations of children swung out over its pools onto Monkey Island, screaming and whooping as pirates and adventurers, battling and bonding in equal measure.
 

And then under the aqueduct, where canal crosses river, rising stately and imposing from the banks, stalactites emerging from the arch. The scene of dares for local youths to climb the balustrade and walk the ledge a foot's width above the precipice, risking life in the plunge to shallow bed below.
 

And now it plays host to the pleasure cruisers and the dog walkers and the cyclist, a blur of colour like human Kingfishers or the ramblers tramping more sedately; like Wainwright in the footsteps; like all those that have gone before. 
 

It will still be here when the last of us has said farewell, steadfastly, resolutely making its inexorable journey to the bay; mindful of the ones who share time with it but outlasting them all. 

Ian Crook