The whipping wind gathered strength,
Armed itself with razor blades,
Sheared off jags of ice and rock
Flaying in the wind,
A cat o’ nine tails, of ruthless erosion.

Buried deep in the snout of this duvet of ice –
Boulders the size of buildings;
Mountain sides snatched from source,
Children from the crib –
The weapons of war; to grind and scrape.

As the ice fled,
Its rearguard wax and wane,
Back to its Corrie-home
Left the boulder-litter
Strewn across the plain –

Coddled in ice,
Smothered by dirt
Waiting to breathe the air again.

With time – collapse;
Warmth returned;
Ice passed;
Rock fell;
Chasms opened –

The land, strewn with pot holes
And pits; craters and fractures;
Water filled; trees rose
A pock-marked land of lakes
A plain of a thousand meres.


High banked, single tracked
Ways cut deep by aeons of steps,
Rutted by planked wheels
Or the constancy of hooves
Crossing the ridge-lines
To market or fair.

Winding, uphill, overtopped
By beech and oak,
Maple and hawthorn,
Rough slabs of dirty, bedded chalk
And mossy stalactites
Where water scarpers…
Leaving a shadowed bed
Of leaves and tilth.

Dappled paths, millennia old,
Connect today with yesterday –
The drover with the rambler,
The herdsman with the hiker,
Tracing or retracing
Paths through time.


Tight rows of course-laid bricks
Marl made, black-blue, batter in,
Empire-line, high waisted.
Stays & anchor plates, rings of iron
Fortified by ferns and creeping jenny
Holding the old thing up.

The slip house next door
Is empty of late; the windows
Flaking and blown; walls bowed,
Echoes of work-time chatter…
Today only the slates slip
From the legacy of memories.

Alleyways of setts connect
The lodge to the engine house,
Mould maker’s to the bottle kiln;
Wind down, past a full skip and rotting cable reels;
The memory of a thousand footsteps
Whispers onward.

Looking out, across the cut,
Small shoots of enterprise push into the light;
Girdered skeletons arise; life anew?
Sheds and warehouses,
The stage for new conversations?
Transit and transitions for goods

Made far away; shipped far away.

Where are today’s makers?
Our chance to turn the veins of carbon & clay
Of lead, salt and sand into wares…
Into the wares of today, is here.
Our time to build on the foundations
Of those who strived before us.


In some distant tropical cloud forest
Where fragile wisps of mist
Fuelled by altitude,
Spread like gloved fingers
With malicious intent,
Hummingbird feed;
Flecks of iridescence –
Their beaks probing,
Searching for the next meal.
Three thousand miles away,
Where clouds are thick
But the forest is no more,
A family of sparrows
Bouncing balls of inquisitiveness
And hope,
Have learnt, over a season,
To hover,
To feed and
To live.
Elegant they are not.
But each is beautiful
In its own way.

Measly Acres

The water is up;
Thundering under the old bridge,
Leaving nothing of the arch
That hides a hundred trolls
Of sleep-deprived nightmares;
Bath time for them.
A boiling soup, rich like rich gravy
All clay and silt and sole-trod leaves,
Left over from headier days,
Rips through, all-a-commotion.
This little brook is apologetic
Most days; hardly there –
Whispering along, behind the row
Of ’60s bungalows, protected
By decorative breeze-block garden walls
And shadowed, sloping lawns
Down to overhanging trees –
Beech front properties no less –
Here, miles from the shore.
The water is up,
Bank-topping, eddies round the oak base,
The dogs’ Convenience inconveniently
Lost, for a while at least;
Pummels through the scruffy shrubbery
Grown long on being out of site
From unquestioning Council mowers.
But where’s it from
All this; all this torment and chaos
And pent up free-flowing anger?
How can it rise
From these measly acres –
From these woods and fields
This thin scrape of topsoil
This pebble bound sod?
Yet it rises, it rises.

Who dug the ditches?

Under the scruffy hawthorn –
Dog-eared and tatty,
Dog-sniffed yet brooding –
The ditch runs;
Only a whip of thorns
Protecting it from wandering eyes.
The ditch;
A man-made beck
That beckons to nothing
But flash-flood over-spill
And tsunami waves
From lorry tyres
Smashing and thrashing
Their pyrrhic victories
Against road-edge puddles.

Yet they are there.

These ditches.
These long lines of art
Where man and nature
Worked together;
A partnership,
For once,
That worked for both.

Were they made for the roads?
Steel armed navvies,
Armies of shovels
Digging in unison.
The last spike in
Finishing the turnpike?

Were they made for the fields?
Farmhands and hired hands,
Stopping root rot
Or building a floss
To turn the stone of the mill?

Each was made
With salt-soaked brow,
And blistering toil;
With nicked-fingers,
And aching backs
With rough handled hoes
And hand-me-down trenching spades
Under warm July skies
Zipping with insects,
Skies now painted in sepia –
But were bright and true.

Who dug the ditches?
Their faces, lost to us;
But their work,
Their art – of
These unsung rivers –
Is their story, living still.

From death, life

Straining necks, peering, tip-toed
Above the crowd
Long-limbed, lanky, awkward,
Tangled gait
Like a gate-legged table
These seed heads –
Dead heads on high boughs –
Left untended, standing tall,
Yet swaying, in time
To an unheard tune;
Rhythmically moving
In invisible breeze.

Now, the tune has gone.
Just yesterday it seems
They were bursting with life;
Yellow-headed, like discs
Of sun; stars upended, sidelined
Frisbees of happiness
Creating laughter
As we bound through the sky.
Today, deep browns, drooping leaves –
Partied out, the hangover
From a summer-long session
Of indulgent photosynthesis.

But from death, life.
Curious goldfinches sort
The wheat from the chaff –
Pushing through the stalks
Like long grass in a summer meadow;
Sidling along the stems
In short hops and bounces;
Sneaking up, to scare the kids,
And dine on a seed feast –
Rich, plump, fairest yarrow
And with it, whistle the siren call
Of tomorrow’s summer.


Like remote-control boomerangs
They sweep across the water,
Whistling past my eardrums
Eating on the hoof
Gobbling insects on-the-go
Like commuters snaffling a sarnie;
Skimming above narrowboats
They dart and dive
In a deathly dogfight
Through the late summer skies
Returning at length
To warmer thermals –
Their Serengeti homes
Left, for rent or reuse…
Savanna mudhuts
Bonded to eaves, waiting
For the slow erosion
Of time and wind
To return them to the air
As their occupants before

They picked the cherries

Mid January; low sun
Cold sun, weak rays
Refracted through murk;
Yet, the bounteous summer
Shines on our shop shelves –
Raspberries, strawberries
Flushed with nitrogen;
Boxed and batched
Shoulder to shoulder
In discounted ranks
Standing to attention
In New Year multi-buys.
The paths of commerce
Changing the Earth’s angle of tilt
Removing the seasons,
Removing nature’s harvest time;
Making the special, ordinary
Disconnecting us
From the orbit and amplitude
Of our home.

Down on the lay-by
Next to where the early morning
Mini-bus gathers up its
Crowded workers from their
Crowded flats,
Two girls, giggled
Slavic screams
Of joy, aimed up high;
One pulled the branch down,
The other, on tip-toes
Tipped the fruit into
Her upturned hem.
They picked the cherries
In the place they grow
Two for the pot, one for them.
They picked the cherries
Which we, in our wisdom
Let lie, go to waste
Bird food now, our riches
Squandered, for a January
Pavlova or March Eton Mess.


Today I saved a bee

Today I saved a bee.

Bouncing against the pane
With pain in his heart
From wisps of spider web
Cocooned around his legs;
Pollen flecks on fur-backed biceps
Going to waste, bound for nothing.
As he struggled, I could feel
His fatigue, his exhaustion;
As he struggled, I could sense
His desperation, his longing
To be free again –
A freedom
So enticingly near
Yet invisibly far.
Gently, I cupped him
In a chipped pattern-print mug
From Stoke or somewhere;
An unwanted charity letter
His temporary cell door.
Gently, I unravelled him
Disentangled his webbed feet
And let him fly
And with it, fly free my heart.