Friday 29 August 2014

It's all about the aqueduct!



This week, three poems all inspired by the same location - the aqueduct at Garstang where the Lancaster Canal passes over the River Wyre.  Compare, contrast, but - most importantly - enjoy.

 






Aqueduct

It’s not in watercourses’ nature, crossing one another
so Rennie pulled a rope of water taut, to let the Wyre
glide beneath and wriggle down to greet the sea.

And, if he hadn’t, the canal perhaps would form a dam
backed up with centuries of rain to make the plain
a lake enough for the moon to take a midnight swim in.

Norman Hadley
 
 
 




Titan
 
Mighty titan hewn from stone,
feet planted solid on each bank.
Salt stalactites, cold knives hung from his belly.
Twelve wooden steps curve upwards round his form,
Inviting to ascend to shoulder height.
A purr of diesel power
confuses human senses.
The giant sputters in his sleep?
 
Stretching into middle-distance,
straight and true,
along the titan’s outstretched arms
a mirage waterway appears.
Bobbing wooden barges
bright in primary hue,
mallards trailing in their wake.
The traveller peering from his collar
sees the river surging to the sea.
An Intersection for adventurers.
Inland my love or on to destiny?
 
Adele V Robinson
 
 
 



Crossflux
 
X marks the spot
in Garstang on Wyre,
where water passes over water.

A rare enough feature
gives cause to consider
how like a drawing
by MC Escher
[fittingly, son of a civil engineer]
this construct by which
artifice mirrors nature
and is reflected back therein;
not a crossroads exactly,
more a liquid geometry:
underflow with overtow -
canal atop and river below.
 
Steve Rowland
 
 



 
 









 

Sunday 24 August 2014

WoW! Hot off the presses - more contributions from our publication.

 
 
 





Broom
 
                            Broom
Pale 
   Golden                         Pollen
                              Purses
Sweet
                      Sickly         
                                      Perfume
                Caressing
Warm
                Gentle  
                                   Sea   
                                       Breezes
Swirling
                                Swaying
Sweeping                            
                            Broom.

Anne Ward
 






 

Garstang’s Ophelia
In a twisting of the tumbling Wyre
inspirited by April showers,
between steep banks of cicely
smelling of aniseed and myrrh,
lies swollen Ophelia tangled in willow,
the river her bed, its ripples her pillow.
 
Romance brought low by poverty,
her melancholy prince, sad suitor,
set sail on Wyre tide, New Worlds to discover.
She wove forget-me-nots into a lover’s favour,
and cried hot tears to see him go,
quick with the child he’d never know.
 
Swallows skim now across her liquid grave,
wild ramson bows its head above the flow.
Her honeyed tresses look almost alive
in this rolling rinse of rusty peat water,
swirling in eddies - as if she’s trying to break free
to follow her Hamlet down Wyre to the sea.
Steve Rowland
 

 
 

 
Muddy Lass
Slimy soft and slippery,
yet still she dips her toes,
and paddles to the other bank,
the trusty Wyre Rose.
Ami Noone

 

 




Beyond the cabin door
Metallic blackness unwinds, revealing sea and shore.
Salt watercolour seeps into sleepy eyes.
Soft powder blue, a wash of endless sky,
Shot with sugar arrows to the tip of Morecambe Bay.
Copper sand rolls in like cool carpet at my feet,
strewn with pebble voyagers and
crumpled lager can, clutter of the night,
invading gull kissed walkway of the day.  
 
Settling on rocks that pier into the surf,
unexpected touch brings voices.
Windermere days of burning coal and whistling steam,
Brasso, pink on copper kettle,
and the port and starboard lamps.
Crimson swirling into crystal water,
Seeping out of crescent scar an inch above my heel,
sliced open on the slimy rocks at Wray.   
 
Beyond the wind farm ranks,
a distant boat, bobs like a bath toy,
in shadow lands between the sky and sea.
On shore, the stone hewn ogre of the deep
groans,  longing for his precious stranded shell.
Sea breath billows into winter lungs
and we rise to share the spray at water’s edge,
bursting into waves of carefree dance.
Adele V Robinson