Poem International

7/28/2019 Poem International

1/5

MY VILLAGE

If theres one thing youll learn

From Wath-upon-DearneIts just how a village should be.

You can take any path,

Queen of villages, Wath

Englands beauty is right here to see.

For what once was the goal

To mine enough coal

Built a people of vitality.

And now I look around

From my house to the town

And am glad to live here and be me.

For from Hadrians Wall

To the tip of Cornwall

I have travelled for many a day.

Round the world I have flownMany villages known

But when asked I can honestly say.

I shall always return to Wath-upon-Dearne

To my village, my hearts final stay.

Marjorie Beachill


2/5

THE COOLING TOWERS AT DIDCOT

The bride and bridesmaids, look. A child

Is pointing from the swerving train.A memory I must have filed

And labelled read again, again.

So long ago. Today, once more,

My train passes those plain squat towers,

I watch three women near the doorOf a square church, they bear no flowers.

Though veiled in white, stout matrons still

And faded like a photograph

Of an old wedding day, until

They disappear. Technologys half

Life seems so short. The towers must go,

They say. Railways will follow too.

Our great grand-children will not know

The secret Didcot sight we knew

And loved, a stately wedding marchWhich none but children recognise,

Frozen in time, beneath the arch

Of spacious, grey, indifferent skies.

J ohn Elinger, Oxford


3/5

ODE TO BILLINGE

Above you, heaven and the seagulls call.

Before you, a map of imperial fall.Between you and Ireland, no greater height.

The Armada fled your beacon bright.

Beneath you, miner and quarryman died.

Your heart caught fire when their bellows sighed.

You spewed up your stone to build our homes.We salved your wounds with suburban blooms.

Within you, seams like capillaries spread.

Your slopes play host to the sleepless dead.

Inside your taverns legends spring to life

Of the royal blade and the robbers knife.

Refuge of romance, by Saint Aydan blessed.

Blind to all commerce is your ancient crest.

In this land of rainfall and black cloud burst,

For what the greedy fear, the poet thirsts.

Owen Lowery, Billinge, Lancashire


4/5

HOME SWEET HOME IN LOXLEY VALLEY

Our house is our haven, in a lovely spot

We wouldnt change it, we love what weve gotTrees stand tall and the fields are green

We are lucky to be here, its so serene

In summer its marvellous in its glory

But in winter its a different story

Winter brings snow, everything stands still

Cant get off the drive or up and down the hillIts worth all the hassle to live in this place

Whatever the season, Loxley shows its grace

When spring arrives it lifts our spirits high

The sprouting leaves, the clear blue sky

The birds come home to sing in the trees

As leaves begin to rustle in the warm breeze

We will never leave here, it holds us under its spell

The duck pond and the little ducks we know so well

Country lanes we drive along lead to scenic bliss

Sights around Loxley wed never want to miss

Pamela Griffiths, Sheffield


5/5

NIGHTINGALE VALLEY

Nightingale Valley where we used to walk

Was silent but for the kiss of dry stalkAgainst dry stalk of bleached river grasses

As we drank red wine in plastic glasses.

Will they return the nightingales?

Breaking the evening quiet with their song

Shaking the private dreams of every loverWho whispers secrets by the river.

My love has left me, my dear companion

Slipping one night into a distant room

Slowly, slowly the time passes

For me the nightingales will never sing

For me the evening quiet and alone

And the dry kiss of dead grasses.

J udith Drazin, Bristol

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