"runcorn" poems
It's half past four and the Red Rose
is Doppler dashing across
bullying slow fourth class hikers bikers
who dare to share the bridge walkway.
Puffing pumping its steam sweat smoke
straining through the shielding lattice
smogging choking foot folk
who snort its sulphur scented smuts.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
They huddle in the cold damp darkness
grateful for the sheltering sandstone
shuddering at each echoing blast
a remorseless dull ache
like their meagre rations
eyelids shutting wrinkling between attacks
seeking peace and inner sleepless solace.
'Them docks is taking a pasting.'
'Me Dad works there.'
Another attack, tunnels rumble
evoking century old echoes
of rusty trundling drum-line wagons
bearing sandstone blocks to build the docks
now being blitzed blighting the night sky.
The morning brings a dusty disquiet.
Merseyside emerges curses soldiers on.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Cocooned under a web of road
rail and footpath at Top Locks
five narrow boats await their fate
stuck in a canal trade ice age.
Calling for new boat people
to change course from speed and stress
they're refitted cleaned and preened
for slow lane contemplation.
Slowly ne vessels pump life blood
branching out across old veins
filling the ships with goods again.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
There's a drawing on my wall
a pen and ink impression
of the old transporter bridge
- a Meccano masterpiece.
It's my Tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin.
We listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Musing at my bedroom window
proscenium to the street scene
parents in the back room snoring
St. Michael's sandstones frowning
at poor sally shambling shuffling
from secret shadow to moonshine
bottles clanking - guilty glancing
bulging stout bag - liquor dancing.
Standing at our poet's corner
spectators pilgrims commentators.
Ectoplasmis streams rise and flare
hot heaving lungs to cold dry air.
They stare - prepare explanations
poltergeist premeditations.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
We're boating on Brindley's cut
cruising to the cotton city
Manchester where it all goes on
the engine of our empire.
Eight hours of ease from Top Locks,
meals provided, plenty to see
here on the cutting edge
of British engineering.
A night out on the tiles
then back again to dear old Runcorn,
something to tell our kids,
the start of a transport revolution.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Musing at my bedroom window
proscenium to the street scene
parents in the back room snoring.
St. Michael's sandstones frowning
at poor Sally shambling shuffling
from sectret shadow to moonshine
bottles clanking guilty glancing
bulging stout bag liquor dancing.
Standing at the poet's corner
spectators pilgrims commentators
ectoplasmic streams rise and flare
hot heaving lungs to cold dry air
they star prepare explanations
poltergeist premeditations.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
The roughness of unshaven sandstone,
dark from the morning's early growth,
jutting its chin estuarywards,
cold until lathered in the midday sun.
A platform for he who would rule
all Merseyside for an instant,
taking in deep breaths of fantasy
for his private meditation.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
There is a drawing on my wall,
a pen and ink impression
of the old Transporter Bridge,
a Mecccano masterpiece.
It's my tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie,
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin,
we listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
The stream of Sunday people
used to separate down High Street,
led by family threads, some to
Bethesda others to St. Pauls.
Some time later they joined a stream again,
swirling, rippling with the gossip of the day.
Their duty done singing hymns, dropping pennies,
offering prayers and sitting through sermons. Amen.
Prominent St. Pauls praised by Pevsner
as Runcorn's most distinctive building,
but Bethesda, older, iron railed,
both cures for souls till their people left.
Now St. Pauls cures patients' bodies,
while Bethesda harbours buses.
Weekday people steam and gossip,
potions purchased, journeys joined.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I've come to see Saint Christopher,
a cult local celebrity -
commanding, remote, bearing
the burden of pious prayers,
a chip from Cheshire's sandstone lip -
to hitch a lift on his shoulders
into Norton priory's past.
Gingerly touching sandstone walls,
connecting with their history,
rough grains adhere to my hand.
I somehow feel part of it now,
watching mediaeval hoodies
as they celebrate the spilling
of some ancient sacred blood.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
The interrior was dark and dusty,
a second-hand treasury for searchers.
Deeply breathing the particulate air,
I squeezed through to my secret back room.
Care of J.M. Dent and Everyman,
there for sixpence, at pocket money price,
an unexplored world could be had.
Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
Single storey, long brick building,
curtained stage and wooden floors,
overture beginners, teachers,
scouts and guides in Sunday chorus.
Sounds of pennies dropping,
scraping chairs, coughing, iching, scratching,
and fidgets tiny bladders filling.
Holy high days came in cycles,
Whit Walks, banners, carnivals.
Many living on in stories,
since their final church parade.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Once private priviledged and aloof
the Grange is now a public place
where children swing and slide and shine
flowers in their parents' eyes
where births and marriages and deaths
bare bones rest in Runcorn's archive.
Here people seek to right their wrongs
express their doubts and fears and views
it's here that ballots call the shots
for mayors and councillors and clerks
pursuing our priorities.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
I do not know you
Yet - I dream
At night I see your face
In the pale moon
As I walk the streets
The town feels cold
I feel your hand
Give warmth to mine
By the Manchester Ship Canal
I picture our meeting
The smile on your lips
Lust in my eyes
A kiss below the streetlamp
A ***** in the underpass
You look at the bridge
I look at your face
The train pulls in
I wake from my daydream
You alight at the station
I drown in my guilt.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC