Another exciting week, four wonderful new pieces and we need your help.

Learning The Truth About Kingfishers

The planet lost a little of its patina
the day he told me that a kingfisher’s
not really blue. “Oh no,” he intoned,
“there’s not a hint of pigment
in their plumage. Deep in shade,
they fade to just another LBJ.”
It seems that something in their feather-hairs
can scatter sun to conjure colour from a blur of air,
as if there is a world of brilliance somewhere
the bird reveals as it unzips the river.

Norman Hadley

Rossall Point

I’ll know just when my time has come when God will call my name
And then I’ll ask for one more hour before my soul He’d claim.
I’ll make my way to Rossall Point far from the madding throng
With quiet mind to stand awhile at peace where I belong.

And as the distant hills turn blue in Lakeland’s evening haze,

I’ll think of how we walked and climbed on golden summer days
Of how we said they’d never end but all the time we knew
We blink an eye; the years go by and sadly end they do.

Then to the West I’ll turn my face, the salt spray on my skin.
I’ll watch the pipers in the sand, I’ll watch the tide slide in.
I’ll see the ferry on the turn, the seagulls in the bay
And watch as Rossall’s scarlet sunset gently slips away.    

I’ll miss the Point , the wind and clouds, the view that wealth can’t buy

I’ll miss the sands that stretch for miles, the sea that meets the sky

I’ll miss the freedom of this place and matter not the toll

My heart will stay at Rossall Point when Heaven takes my soul.

Harry Batty

 

Unseen Shell

A worn winkle shell, colour unknown.

Thin now with the wearing of the sea and sand

Empty. Sounding hollow when I tap.

Feel the sworls, the internal spiral

Going to a soft point,

Where once a gentle creature lived

Secure upon a rock -holding tight.

Gone now, lost to the sea,

As it's home lives on for me

As I tap - tap - tap.

Kathleen Curtiss

Sampher

 

Full-bodied women

                pickled, ankle-deep in brine,

enticed by salty succulents,

    along the tide line.  

  

Red-legged terns

                punctuate pale terracotta

searching for crustaceans,

     sand dancing reflections in mirror pools.

 

Keepers of the drowning flats.

     They  rise to sky

                with soulful cries

                                as sea kissed river eases home.

 

Adele V Robinson

 

More literary treats from the world of...

Rainy Day Millennium Way....

[Scorton to Gubberford Bridge]

green drizzle

trains rattle

birds’ eggs in a box

three ring bells

dark mud

sand holes

banks fell

constant rain

feet wet

again!

martins wheel

lightning tree

cows paddle

ducks waddle

otter hides

inconstant bride

dripping leaves

fool’s gold

feet cold

again!

grey clouds

cars loud

seat carved

grass scoured

walkers ramble

legs bramble

thoughts scramble

bridge reached

feet retreat

again!

Steve Rowland
 

 

 

 

 My Country Escape

It’s not a day for walking - not today; not for me. I have gathered with others at the Barn at Scorton for the express purpose of walking and then writing what the walk has inspired. The rain cascades remorselessly down from a sullen grey sky, unremitting gloom. But from the Barn and within the Barn I can find sufficient inspiration without the inconvenience of being soaked to the skin. I make my excuses and the hardy, hearty foot soldiers troop off in search of beauty and poetry.

The incongruous rattle of train, speeding folk to Cumbria and beyond, and the vicious hiss of M6 traffic cut through the pastoral peace. Only the church bells chime with the bucolic peace. Outside the window flowers dance unwillingly to the tune of the wind and rain – blowsy dog-roses, defiant red-hot pokers, wild roses with their browbeaten petals askance add welcome flashes of colour to the slate vista and the ephemeral irises gracefully bow their heads, as if in acknowledgment that their short-lived glory is at an end.
 

Inside the café ladies who lunch share muted confidences to the polite clink of cups and cutlery. Walkers and cyclists, with the glowing patina of their seasoned, outdoor faces, take a welcome break, the weight off their legs and tuck into the hearty fare that will replenish their strength for the onward journey.
 

This is not my first visit to the Barn. For me it represents a much-loved symbol of family life, as well as a complete contrast to blowsy, brash, brazen Blackpool where I live. My young daughter and I came here each year as part of our Christmas ritual, to enjoy the gift shop dressed ready and resplendent for the festive celebrations. Then it became a favourite destination for my young granddaughters, my son’s children, little ladies who lunch in the making. Now my daughter has a little son and life turns a circle, as he too joins the family ritual. And so the years roll by and our trips to my country escape continue, creating what I hope will be among my grandchildren’s precious childhood memories.
 

Sheilagh Dyson

 

 

 

Travel

 

On the hailed ferry from

Wardley's Creek to jetty 

at Cockle Hall I scull back

days to nosing through

ducklings on The Cam punting

past King's College Chapel on

The Backs with puntsman

Eliot reminding us: When

we can see the backs of leaves

rain is waiting in the wings.
 

C J Heyworth

The Old Bank Stands

Two floors vacant, used no more,

now empty useless space;

the old bank opens just one door

to show its public face. 
 

Three floors used to run finance

at centre for the street,

but now two floors have done their dance,

their useful life complete...
 

Dusty ledgers are no more,

clerks no more they write,

pen and ink were shown the door
by keys and screens that light.

Just one floor to serve its role,

its daily commerce ships

with few staff left to service need

all done by phone or chips.
 

One person does the job of ten,
computers now abound;

they do the work of girls and men

in banks of old renown.

Christopher Walton