Reaching in brambles for berries

Their ripeness and sweetness

Safe from government levies

So I gorge in the morning

And I gorge by the night

On these beautiful blackthings

I pick with fingers so light

I pick from the top

And the dogs from the bottom

The doctor and nurse so glad

Their message i've gotten

For it rings in my ears

What they've had to say

Now I can tell them that i've had

My five a day.

No roses are red no voilets blue

The cherries all ate

salad leaves on our plate

now is the time try not to hack

to gather the berries

this time they are black

Or perhaps, of not being all there,

But at the community poem,

Blank pages I stare,

So in this attempt to

get your creative juices flowing

I throw caution to the wind,

So lets try and get going,

The verse might rhyme

or possibly not,

And to be quite honest

I dont give a jot,

Spelling mistakes,

There may be few,

Blame it on a slip of the finger,

I always do.

Iambic pentameter,

Goes out of the door,

It was alright for Shakespear,

Need I say more.

Now take a break,

go and have a drink of some tea,

While I rack my brains,

For this attempt at poetry.

Are you back,

Do you feel refreshed,

For your community poem,

You dont need a test.

Now this morning,

While out in the sun,

Well it was the dogs idea,

And I dont find fun.

But we happened to find a sink,

Of the Belfast kind,

It was broke in two pieces,

And there so hard to find.

And a childs dummy,

Hangs in a tree,

And I thaught Leave it there,

It wasn't for me.

I'm sorry now,

If I'm begining to bore,

For this looks like being,

A part of my grand tour.

My friend Sally Anne,

Has started to write,

But she's from the south,

And its their corner she fights,

I can't carry on,

I know not, where to stop,

The pens in my hand,

And i'm stating to flop.

Twenty minuites is all

This lot took,

So let the Creative juices flow,

I wish you all the best, and good luck.

From handling stone,

The pillars for the gate

Have now to be honed.

Sandstone blocks

Roughly six feet by two,

Now sit in the yard

And await their cue.

For the mason now

Will make his mark,

And decide upon

Where the work is to start.

And his turn now

Is to chip and bang,

And around the yard

You can here the clang.

And from chipped stone

And a pile of dust,

These works of art

Are a compulsary must.

For to adorn

The blacksmiths gate,

The work of the mason

Must surely be great.

The forgetmenot,

As it dares you

not to go,

For it lives its life

Among the nettles,

The place it dared

you not to go.

and joy of old,

Was to make a gate

oh so bold.

The steel was tempered

and beat to shape,

As the blacksmith hammered,

at this gate.

Joints of mortice and of

tennon,

For this work of art

inspired from heaven.

And the sweat would roll,

and the smoke would pour,

From the furnace to

the floor.

And he would beat, and

he would bang,

And the lump of metal,

on the anvil sang.

High pitched notes

from heaven above,

This work of art, was the

blacksmiths love.

time,

The rusty old gate now

covered in grime.

Standing alone at the

edge of the field,

I stand and wonder what

memories it might yield.

This work of art,

a blacksmiths joy,

The skills he used,

learned as a man and boy.

How old, it's imposible

to date,

The year the blacksmith

made this gate.

Of springtime and sun,

Mists over fields,

And scents yet to come,

Daffodils,bluebells,

Wild garlic and more,

Over hillsides and banks,

They are by the score,

And rivers that now flow,

With a more gentle ebb,

Nothing seems rushed,

What more could you beg.

May be two, three or four,

But if I'm honest with you,

I'm not really sure,

Depends on the breed,

Or so they say,

The bigger the birds,

The longer the days,

But those bundles of fluff,

With ever open beaks,

Is well worth the wait,

For any number of weeks,

And mum and dad,

They are ever so proud,

But how do they keep up,

With their ever hungry crowd.

And twigs fit for nests,

The birds are so busy,

And theres no time to rest.

Days filled with restlessness,

From dawn through to night,

Procreation's to perform,

And days full of flight.

Backwards and forwards,

To their space in a tree,

And a mum that sits waiting,

On eggs, patiently.

And breast so red,

To tell you that

Robin, he's well fed.

He doesn't care,

Be it, winter or spring,

As you walk your path,

Pitched notes will ring.

A song thats sung,

On low or high,

Branches and boughs,

That touch grass or sky.

And as he follows,

Singing, you a song,

In the hopes of you feeding

He may not be wrong.

Water gained from upper reaches,

Dark black holes, and water filled,

Wind swept reservoirs on pennine hills,

Moss and Lichened granite blocks,

Keep these waters, well land locked,

Arranged in steps down the valley's,

Letting gravity, the water carry,

Signs to warn of the dangers,

In large letters, for the strangers,

And tinted sky's of black and grey,

To remind, rain, is never far away.

In the sun,

Out of doors,

Having fun.

Up high,

Looking down,

Surveying all,

That surrounds.

Spring wind,

On my face,

World below,

At faster pace.

Can't keep up,

Must slow down,

To look upon,

Millbrook town.

Continuing search

For the Tame,

Origins sort,

Why I came.

Still not there,

Miles to go,

Lifelong quest,

A need to know.

Getting closer,

Day by day,

This holy grail,

On the pennine way.

In yellow, white and purple,

Encompass the the tree's,

In ever increasing circles.

And the unpretentious Robin,

How sweetly they sing,

Around the woods,

Their song does ring.

Are easly missed,

Unless by the Sun,

They are sweetly kissed.

Heads bowed low,

In the shadow of the tree's,

Quavering gently,

In a late winter breeze.

Urging them forth to put on their show.

How can we have any summer indeed

Without the green grass and its tall waving seed?

Nowhere going,

Standing still,

Never flowing,

Neither this way,

Or even that,

Similarities shared,

Falling flat,

Looking in,

Water dark,

No reflections,

Very stark,

Little life,

Touch of green,

Here and there,

Not much seen,

Willows anchored,

To a bank,

In a water,

That always stank

Water collected from rivulets pure,

Drained from peat and ling together,

Flows fast away from the heather,

Winding it's way from a pennine hill,

Hasty to get away from the winter chill,

Beckoning spring to meet it as it flows,

Past cotton mills and cottages built in rows,

Curling, twirling all the way,

Past fields getting ready for summer hay,

Under bridges and below roads,

Always obeying the country code,

Flowing slow, sometimes fast,

Depending on how long the mood might last,

And its final chapter, way on down,

Is when it reaches Stockport Town.

Was my mood,

But my blood flows now,

And with attitude,

As I watch water pour,

From a hole in the bank,

It might as well be my blood,

For here I played many a

childhood prank.

But now returned,

I find I'm to late,

To watch history

Disapearing at an

Alarming rate.

They're stacking bricks,

And stacking fast,

Over a landscape,

Never meant to last.

And once sang

The skylark, high above,

Peewit's flocked and

So did the doves.

And now bulldozers stand,

And wait like tanks,

Revving up, and ready

To move with the ranks.

Over this battlefield,

Of hills and bricks,

The sight of which,

Makes me feel

Physically sick.

Where the dozers roared and giants held sway

The wheels rolled over dumbing the sound

Of the great wheel of Life but it still goes round

The men who wreak havoc don't seem to wonder

What others need. They tear asunder

Wriggling ponds and singing trees.

What care they that we're ill at ease

So that we have to rave and shout

To let others know what it's all about

Cash is real wealth, we are constantly told,

But Life will survive, be she ever so old.

half a chance,

These ducks that do

A Springtime dance,

Over the Moon I

Would have been

to be priviledged

To witness such a

Scene.

Now all around us,

In the air is Spring,

What sights, what joys,

What revelations will

it bring.

Myself I have to

take a different path,

And look for beauty

In a landscape trashed.

Theres no sign of Spring

here, only dereliction,

Which my dark side treads

To satisfy an addiction.

And out of any ashes,

You can rest assured,

As night follows day,

I will resurrect something

pure.

Nobody will know,

I will keep it to myself,

And one day something

You might pass, may have

Started life somewhere else.

But for now catkins yellow,

Hang on Willow trees,

Catching the sun and

And dance in the breeze.

Theres hints of colours

Changing here and there,

They do not miss

My prying stare.

Look deep, look deep,

look deep and see,

These colours are there

for you, as well as me.

How many times have we seen the ducks dance

In the earliest months when they get the chance?

Like those two today just ordinary ducks

That are used to the river the ponds and the brooks

Their bobbing and curtseying all so thrilling

And new to them, makes people willing

To think of the fresh and the new and the clean:

Daffodils yellow with spears of green,

Armed to drive away the winter’s dark

And bring back the faith in our Country Park

Those birds have braved the frost and snowing

The bleak damp days and the night winds blowing

They’ve seen the dawn and the lightning strike

The foxes and vandals but nothing like

The things we’ve seen and the things we’ve learned

Of flooded homes and forests burned.

Their innocence makes us feel their pleasure

In their home in the Vale, Our greatest treasure.

instead of daming the place to the world.

SAD they say is how we feel

But come the spring and when the flowers reveal

We once again will start to sing its praise

and rejoice that we got over this negative phase

life again takes its toll,

Who pulled the plug,

On a now derelict hole.

Feelings of melancholy,

Hang in the air,

As me and the bird stand,

And at each other stare.

Do we share the same tears,

As we look around in dismay,

And the roar of the bulldozer,

Gets closer each day.

Just me and the bird,

Take our last look

Before turning away,

From an ancient pond,

About to be filled in with muck.

( ok this is'nt about the Vale,

but its not very far away,

and it shows what happens,

when the developers,

are allowed to have their

own way).

memories of what, once was,

Trees that were once standing,

now stacked with no cause,

Some felled by high winds,

and others by man,

A battlefield of broken timber,

now lies on the land,

Stand quietly, close your

eyes and listen,

Imagine a Requiem Mass,

because this is all that is

Missing.

Amongst the trees,

Can anybody explain,

and what is the need.?

Is this some form of

Pagan right.?

A ritual, where these stacks

are compelled to almost double

over night.

What is their purpose?

I can't work it out,

Do I need to scream,

Do I need to shout?

When will it stop?

Nobody seems to know.

Perhaps when all trees

have been cut,

And everything has

Ceased to grow.

Through Elephants, Tigers

And the odd Giraffe.

This was reality and not A dream

For I sold newspapers, to

A Circus team.

I walked the railway lines,

Doing much the same,

selling papers and

dodging trains.

Now I'm getting old and

I walk a muddy path.

With feelings that,

One day, on it,

I might meet my wrath.

But now the bag I carry,

contains only food,

To maybe feed a mother,

And maybe her brood.

But this story really has no end,

It just go's on and on,

Till the food I feed the birds,

Has nearly all gone.

Of our precious brood of cygnets, just over there

The cob was carrying them wild and free

To the bend in the river there, that’s where

The greenest weed grows in summer’s light

And the wise swan knows that this is the food

For his babies. Oh, he put up a fight

But the dogs were a pack, and out for blood.

In seconds all the joy turned to deepest pain

We found two dead, but the other had gone.

This spring the life force will rise again.

And joy in our Vale once again be reborn

To late to write of in Winter sun,

Must look forward, no looking back,

Forget the memories, now must rise

the sap,

Spring is close, but not close enough,

we're still submerged in this Winter

rough.

What feet would have been left in pain,

With endless journeys to the mills,

To colour Calico and pay the bills,

What feet would never make it home,

What fingers were worked beyond bone,

What wife waited with a child at her feet,

When the man she loved did'nt come

for her to meet,

And what eyes now, are lying still,

After a lifetime of colouring Calico,

At the mill.

And not a beat of a wing,

The Owl sails silently over fields,

To see what food they will bring.

And they are still dark,

But the birds they know,

Their chorus must start,

and so they stand on

the highest branch in the tree,

Singing listen.listen,listen

to me.

singing we come first, before your leaves,

watch the crocus saying hello

Stand like statues in the winter chill,

Heads not held high, but hanging low,

Theres no escape, nowhere to go,

They wait patiently, for the turn of day,

And if they're lucky, they might just get

a nice feed of good fresh hay.

Its Springtime and to each other,

They have such a lot to say.

walk hand in hand along the way

They curl to the ground gently on the breeze,

A Fox watches from behind winter grass,

He thinks you've not noticed as you pass,

A fine specimen, the best i've seen,

Must have fed well this winter, he was'nt to lean.

A place to pray,

A place to return to

each and every day,

A place called Reddish

a place with a Vale,

A place of such beauty

To many, this place is,

their Holy Grail.

a river,

Horses stand in fields

and shiver,

Theres no escape from this

winter cold,

In this monumental place

of old,

woodpigeons, woodpeckers and honking geese...

--- Hoppy(guest) 

making us feel more at peace when summer is here i bet you cant compeat

To get down to 'the Vale'

But everytime I plan something,

I inevitably FAIL.

I'll get down there eventually,

And deal with the funny looks,

'Cos I'm the sort to sit there

Talking to the ducks...

I take with me some seeds and nuts

For hungry faces on the way

And also my digital camera...

To remind me of my stay.

It looks glorious there in the early morn,

I just wished I was a morning person!

But for now, here's my rhyme -

Come on y'all keep versin'!

woodpigeons, woodpeckers and honking geese...

Well actually, it took three jumps out,

And three jumps back,

I picked the Frog up,

And it turned out to be a Toad,

And I thought my friend,

We both need help

With crossing the road.

All we have to show,

Are footprints of some poor creatures,

Caught out, and unaware,

In the freezing Winter snow

Of birdsong and babbling brooks,

And early morning mists on fields,

Through which, only a spring sun

can cut.

Of each and every day,

A quality of light tells you,

Spring is pushing Winter,

Further and further

Away.

In the glare of the snow and the blight of the frost

And numbness spreads in the fingers and most

Bloody is the robin’s breast

Listen hear the river flowing

the motorway and factory gates,

A green oasis awaits..................