Two Poems by Sally Evans

At Briggflatts Meeting House

Inside History

Small hall built like a ship
in the heyday of wooden ships,
panelling, banisters held firm
by master workmanship no longer known
fired by the need to float a country’s sons
rails and galleries, staircase, gates,
boxed seating, open seating,
pillars and pews all carpentered,
reliant on the strength of oak
that lasts and lasts through centuries.
A stone-clad hideout under fells
no government could better,
bids us board this ship of time,
come inside history.


At Basil Bunting’s grave

Beneath the rising brae
by that great sycamore
that marks a boundary’s
reason it is there,
some ten feet steep
to base of copper beech,
as dark as leaves will go,
touching red in nature,
where old, matched, simple stones
step down among wild flowers,
sorrell and bluebell, grasses
cover the bones that sleep,
and look, a tree of words
grows from the poet’s feet.

 

brigflatts

Poem by John Calvert

 

 

 

Helsby Hill profileTHE OLD MAN OF HELSBY HILL

Who punched me on the nose
To spite my face?
Broken, I blink down lines of sun
I stiffen my profile

I sniff the sea
Stanlow”s sweel, Fiddlers Ferry fumes
My powers are older
Outliving the fossil
In my Devonian bone

I felt the legions
Yomp over my back
Saw the plodding saltsters hooves
Then the traffic”s tinnitus
Hissed towards the coast

Some pause in my shadow
For burgers, for unleaded
In artics or hatchbacks
They glint out of time
I set into stone

Rain sands me down
Energy to entropy
Eras slip from my grasp
My face will come and go
See me in this light

John Calvert