Tag Archives: third post of the day

On the Knott


And in some corrugated field, a tower pointed at the clouds.
It dated from a bygone age, the soil around its base now ploughed
And fat with oats. In rough hewn blocks, precariously balanced stairs
Coiled upwards in a tightened spiral, hanging in the empty air,
Whilst arches held the walls above the swaying ocean of the crops,
And in the darkness just beyond came snorting sounds. We bravely stopped,
Convinced that we had seen six eyeballs blinking in the murky dark,
And egging one another on, we peered into the dungeon’s heart,
Where evil moaned in ghostly tones and demons shuffled in the deep,
Then screaming ran, as three brown cows emerged from where they’d been asleep.




They gathered now at Eskham, in their wellies, like a flock of ducks,
The farmyard full of cats who’d left the barn to take a closer look,
And gazed out on the field, half-submerged in storm light, studying
The earthworks underneath the grass. Then with tape measures, trowels and pins
They started systematically to draw up diagrams that were
At best inaccurate, at worse a difficult to work out blur,
Their minds made up already there was nothing ancient here to see,
Just mud and banks and stuff that didn’t smack of archaeology.
Raised voices broke the thickening air. I’m told that the collective noun
For archaeologists’s an ‘argument’. It seems someone had found
A piece of brick, Victorian, no doubt from the old cattle shed
Now gone, but still on 1847 maps, and so they said
There wasn’t anything of any value here from history,
And pleased with what they’d done retired to the farmhouse for their tea,
While I just stood there in the earthworks, hardly caring any more,
Knowing experts years ago found half a Roman farm next door.

Round the Islands off Lismore


The ocean lay like crystal here, the afternoon so very still
That, as we pulled out from the shore, the shingle seemed to fall downhill,
And sea anemones in dancing clusters dropped away below,
Along with brightly coloured pebbles, falling soundless, just as though
There wasn’t water here at all, our dinghy floating through the light,
And as we watched the world below us sank in valleys built of night.

Kinver Edge


They carved the rocks at Kinver Edge, in years gone by when times were tough
And hermits built their homes in orange cliffs, the sandstone soft enough
To chisel out their hollow rooms. Amenities were scarce, but then
The view across the forest roof was almost worth the hardship. When
The troglodytes packed up their bags and left some sixty years ago,
Predictably the local youth moved in to carve stuff of their own,
And what were windows once became a fretwork wrought of misspelled words,
And misshaped genitals that pass as art amongst uncultured herds
Of yobbos. Should you climb those rocks you’ll find them battle-scarred these days,
A printer’s block scratched end to end with slang and rumour, deeply crazed.
So watch your step. Read if you must – you won’t find any substance there,
Just comments on Amanda’s breasts and Wazza’s filthy underwear.



They tumble down like dominoes,
Faster as each year shunts by.
Time was I never thought, but now
There’s barely time to say goodbye.
And I’m there, somewhere, in the ranks,
My own fall now long overdue,
Wedged in between the others who’d
Convinced ourselves we were immune.

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