Poems & Prose - Garstang to Fleetwood

 

 

 

Aqueduct

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 giant, 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

 

Being a walk leader during Garstang Walking Festival

On the banks of the river at 7am. Listening to the dawn chorus – twenty- four different species identified – later the same day taking part in in the mini-beast river dip with three generations of families.  Children, wellies, nets, tray for the catch, excitement, exploring, identification, reminding each other of our role in nature.  One of the best days for me.

 

Bluebells are one of the magnets that draw people to the Wyre area – that’s why Garstang Walking Festival is held the second week in May – but shock and horror, unseasonably hot weather in March triggered them off to start flowering early – we walk leaders and bluebell lovers were worried.  All was well, as April had low temperatures and frosty nights and bluebell growth was put on hold. It’s good to be reminded that, though we plan, we don’t rule the weather or dictate the elements.

 

There are twenty names on my list for today’s walk along the Wyre.  We meet up, we talk, we listen.

We marvel at all the changes in the river. A flash of Kingfisher, the delight of bobbing dipper, sound of the cuckoo recalls childhood memories. Pleasure and joy in exploring this area while learning more about ourselves. We part-richer for the day spent together.  No longer just a list of names.

Pat Ashcoft    

 

Trawling Home - The Return

 

The front doors always left unlocked

so they can get inside.

This night they may be coming home

on Fleetwood's inbound tide. 

And all the women wait this night

for husbands or for kin,

hoping that they'll come home safe

and selfish sea won't win.

One day , as every family knows

the sea may have its way

yet still they work the ice cold depths

for fish, for life, for pay.

 

Christopher Walton