links 2016 poetry collection

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rising brook writers

DISCLAIMER: To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is in the public domain or has been reproduced with permission and/or source acknowledgement. We have researched the rights where possible. RBW is a community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using ma-terial from this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the copyright to their own work. Names, characters, places and incidents are imagi-nary or are used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

SPECIAL THANKS: Staffordshire County Council‟s Your Library Team at Rising Brook Branch Library

PUBLISHED BY: Rising Brook Writers RBW is a voluntary charitable trust. RCN: 1117227 © Rising Brook Writers 2016 The right of Rising Brook Writers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 First Edition

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2016 Poetry Collection

Published & Written

by

Rising Brook Writers

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LINKS is the theme of the 2016 annual collection of poetry produced by Rising Brook Writers‟ library and online workshop contributors. LINKS, some severed, some formed: 2015 was a year of change in Rising Brook especially close to

the library, RBW‟ „home‟ for ten years, when the local area was flattened to make way for redevel-opment. 2016 will also see change as the branch library service at Rising Brook is passed by the County Council over to management by Rising Brook Baptist Church. As well as publishing poetry, Rising Brook Writers participate in a number of live performances each year often visiting poetry performance groups in Staffordshire, e.g. Lichfield Poets. Each October, contributors also celebrate National Poetry Day with a poetry session and

frequently invite local poets to participate in RBW workshops. LIGHT was the National Poetry Day theme for 2015 and some of the poems included in this collection reflect this topic.

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Contributing Poets

Lee Fones 7

Nigel Peckett 9

Steph Spiers 16

Lin Priest 20

Penny Wheat 26

Anne Picken 31

Ann Talbot 33

Michelle Draper 36

Owd Fred (aka Countryman 40

Fred Waterfall)

Clive Hewitt 42

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Old Railway Line

The Old Railway Line

Linked Stafford to Telford Shrubbery is so divine

As driver pulls on chord

Serenely down that track

Mile after every mile Its steam engine did whack

Passing shrubbery and stile

It‟s a walk now linked Once steam trains, chuff

On maps its black line inked

And the hedge is rough

Frankenstein Cuff-links

Bought myself cuff-links

From the charity shop Shaped like tidily winks

With a cross upon the top

Took them to the counter

One pound ninety nine It was a close encounter Frankenstein‟s now mine

It‟s amazing isn‟t it

Frankenstein I‟m linked Movie indeed was a hit

And cross is indistinct

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My Bike

I went a bike ride

But a link it snapped I fell upon my side

And my foot was trapped

Trapped inside the A-frame

All caused by a link Wrecked my ride a shame

So went in pub for drink

Light

As candlelight did flicker

In darkness of the night Really got on my wicker So I put it out of sight

All night that candle burn

In morn a puddle of wax Against Uncle Ern‟s urn

And set fire to my slacks

Upon the floor ashes lie

Uncle Ern and slacks How candlelight did fry

Now hovering up with Vax

Auntie will be devastated

Was stopping for a week She‟ll be highly aggravated

So I‟m off to Mozambique

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Storm-rider

Far out at sea a storm Hugs rage to itself Lashing waves into striding hills

White horses racing on the crests Stiff wings against the clouds

Breasting the gale Foam-chaser on the unquiet sea

Wave-skimmer playing in the wild spray Feeding on silver mailed arrows Grey maalie at home on the unresting ocean

Passing from sight behind a curtain of rain

Swarthmoor 12th November 2015 (Maalie Shetland Dialect for a Fulmar)

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Green Desert

Barley ripens in the sun, Green desert stretching to the horizon.

Windwaves ripple the barley‟s beard. No bright poppies to mar its face,

No skylarks or peewits sing here. Ancient hedges torn up by the roaring, yellow dragon To manufacture this flat, unlovely landscape.

Untended, unloved a hedge hangs on. Here birds sing in defiance of the green,

Voles scurry in their private world; In the small headland flowers bloom and creep down

the hedgerow. Bluebells from the vanquished woods; Foxgloves, primrose and wild strawberry from the wood-

land ride. Bindweed scrambles in the hedge, Dog Rose blooms.

Nesting birds flirt in the shelter of the straggling, unloved hedge. Eat we must but at what a cost.

Little Haywood Green Desert

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Shetland Soapstone Bowl

On the ground lies a bowl roughhewn, Cast aside a thousand years ago.

A flaw discovered, Thrown down. Left on the white stone dust.

What were the maker‟s thoughts? I pick up the bowl,

Cradle it, Treasure it,

Picturing thoughtwise the carver; A Viking freeman? A slave chafing in thraldom?

The bowl speaks no words; The mind flies back ten hundred years;

Seeing and unseeing the past. The bowl is caged in a museum.

Does the onlooker feel the same, A strong thread pulling the eyemind? Time flows carrying memories floating on the

stream for the watcher Who waits patiently, silently, wondering.

Little Haywood 21st July 2015

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At Dawn Nine Swans

Nine swans flying eastwards Nine singing wings all in accord

Nine white companions Nine necks outstretched

Nine wings outspread Nine souls greeting the risen sun

Nine pilgrims Nine, thrice sacred three Nine, thrice three blessings

Swarthmoor 12thNovember 2015

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The Haven

In troubled times I fly to my secret place.

A paradise.

An Island within my heart,

Beaches swished with white lipped waves.

Tern and gull dance in the shimmer,

Otter sleeks his way ashore.

Green sea and northern islands.

We sit on purple heathersides and watch.

Many have sat here and caressed the view.

Friends I have brought mindwise to this place.

Now you have flown northwards to those other

isles,

Where I cannot go.

Wait on your shore

And wait.

Little Haywood December 2007

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The Weaver Hills Here I sit in my thin place, Where past and future have not yet been chosen.

Sun shines on sheep shorn grass. Wind cats paws the uncut hay.

Buttercup, Tom Thumb, Lady‟s Smock and Day‟s Eye Mingle with fescue, plantain and thistles. Skylark carols the sky

Stone peeps through the turf Showing the hills‟ strong bones

Who is sitting here now? Who will sit here?

Who sat here? Times all merging into one. Each

Seeing the same sights, Smelling the same smells

Hearing the same sounds When is then?

When is now? When?

The Weaver Hills, Staffordshire, 11th June 2015

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The Forest

Ten thousand leaf falls Each season a heart beat

Each year a breath Countless manlives Yet only twenty oaklives have passed

Since the ice left. I covered the bare earth from shore to shore.

Northwards land darkling with pines, Southwards broadleaved greened.

Sheltered by boughs deer foraged, Beavers gnawed and wolves hunted. Man roamed

Walking wide over the leaf strewings. Knew me as Herne or sometimes Green Man

When I whispered in his dreams, Telling secrets of the woods.

Man‟s heart turned. Not content to take what was freely given. My tall trees were felled and burnt for fields.

Now you push me back to the margins. I wait as I have always waited,

Pass you will. Just as the devouring ice.

I have eaten many proud cities Nothing now but green humps and hollows Where wild things rule.

I am patient. I wait.

Little H

ayw

ood 8

th August 2

015

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In the air In the air, on the breeze A sudden shout, or perhaps a sneeze, The twilight fades and all is still I know I‟m missing a memory: was it Phil? Or Bill, or Will or ...? Who is this man who gives me tea? He smiles and talks: what is he to me? We are our memories and mine are gone

Out here staring at the moon, I linger on.

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Not quite a Villanelle, Memories of the old place. The home I knew as a child is no more.

Bare RSJs, radiators, reclaimed salvage. Demolished. Wrecked. Smashed. Gone.

I remember, the wooden banister. The concrete stairs, aluminium windows.

The home I knew as a child is no more.

Frames which rattled and leaked; Stone lintels, red bricks reclaimed.

Demolished. Wrecked. Smashed. Gone. Lead pipes, gutters sold by weight,

Scrap of lives long moved on. Diggers, bulldozers. The home I knew as a child is no more.

Crane Swinging Ball: Smithereens of hopes and dreams,

Exposed walls purple and green, Abandoned stairwell to nowhere.

Only in memory the smell of Capstan Full Strength, Friday night fights, bruises and mother‟s tears,

The home I knew as a child is no more. Demolished. Wrecked. Smashed. Gone.

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Park Bench On the bench, beneath the tree‟s

Leafy branches, take your ease. Try a book, or paint the vista, Kiss a baby, taunt a sister. Watch the world jog cross the park, Lovely now, but not after dark. The young ex-squaddie crack cocaine, Comatose in oblivion, such a shame. No home to go to, none to care,

Poor lad gave his all, „til his soul did tear.

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Plastic Bag Blues

Who‟d have thought carrying a plastic bag could be as anti-social as having a fag?

Rejected like a Tibetan prayer flag flapping in the branches of a tree, while all they ever do is nag

on about having to pay a wretched 5p. Who‟d have thought carrying a plastic bag

could be as anti-social as having a fag?

Spare a thought for the humble plastic bag, a pariah for doing its bit for landfill. Giving its all with handles that sag,

struggling ‟n mauling shopping up hill. Who‟d have thought carrying a plastic bag

could be as anti-social as having a fag? Suspended from a thousand pushchairs,

‟n ridiculed by artwork from many a Wag in advertising, displayed on moving stairs, the butt of wisecracks from men in drag.


Superseded, replaced by stout canvas and rag

an end to eco-loathing from night until morn. No more rips and tatters from every jag, a fitting end to being crumpled, sworn at and torn.


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Parkinson's

In depth, it is a big hole,

But space at the bottom is very limited. On the way down, it is possible to grasp at things,

Things which halt the rapid fall - for a minute or two. In fact, strong hands reach out, Grip with firmness and determination,

But then they become distracted, their attention wanders, Their hold slackens, and the descent begins once more.

And the lifelines run out - eventually. „Please!‟ „ Would you mind?‟ „Can you?‟ „ I‟m sorry,

I know you are busy!‟ Then, there you are! You and bottom of hole!

Looking around, your nose is almost pressed to the wall. Try turning, your body twists and remains in that position.

Look up in desperation, face screwed up, features squashed together,

Your ‟funny‟ face! But it is not a joke, and you are not laughing. Voices inside your head – sense and nonsense

Begin to soothe, mock, soothe, mock, mock, mock, mock. Until you clench your hands and shout

I WILL NOT LET YOU DEFEAT ME! Little by little, inch by inch,

Like climbing Mount Everest with a piece of string and a clothes peg Your ascent begins.

And it is all your own work. Nobody can understand, some don‟t even try,

Still asleep, unaware, that you have fought that endless battle! AGAIN!

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Remembrance 2015 They told him it was over,

They said the war was won, No more filthy trenches,

He could lay down his heavy gun. He stood in lonely silence, But something caught his ear,

A lilting, lovely birdsong Sung out loud and clear.

Four years of fierce fighting, The singing seemed to say,

Countless young men killed! I‟ll sing for them today.

The soldier stood in silence As others walked away,

Wreaths of scarlet poppies Laid out on display.

His thoughts flew to a battlefield And birdsong filled the air, Singing for the soldiers

Who had fallen there. A war to end all others,

The singing seemed to say, But before anyone could catch them, Those words had flown away.

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These adverts really annoy me. They are shouting' back to school' before this school year has ended.

Back to School, Back to School! Shout the posters on the door.

The summer term not over yet, These adverts such a bore.

Let there be just one year This nonsense is removed. We all know where to go

For school outfitters approved. Let the kids be little kids,

A whole six weeks of fun, Forget the uniform,

Shorts and t-shirt in the sun. Back to school kit in July, Who will be impressed?

Clothes bought to grow into Never look their best.

It‟s time this foolish business Was given the heave-ho,

And when it‟s Christmas-time in August, I really don‟t want to know!

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Did you see that black dog sneak round the back door? From the corner of my eye, I‟ve seen him before.

Likewise a man, with familiar face, Disappeared from sight, left not a trace. I wasn‟t upset but perfectly calm,

I knew in my heart they meant me no harm. Quite often this happens, it is very strange,

I half-see somebody, but just out of range. They seem to belong here, it once was like home. And through house and garden they‟re happy to roam.

I catch glimpses of people I think I once knew, Dashing about, so I don‟t have clear view.

Why do I see them? Know that they‟re there? When nobody else has experiences to share.

If anyone knew of these thoughts in my head, They‟d think I was crazy, so I‟ll keep schstum instead!

Did you see them creep by, the black dog and the man? You have to be quick to see like I can.

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Favourite

The song I have loved many years now Sends shivers up and down my spine.

The lady in the lyrics, like me, Shares a favourite hobby of mine.

She has one surprising advantage In her celestial shopping spree, If the places are not open,

With a word she will get things free.

While the songbird sings so sweetly, And the brook goes babbling by, We all begin to wonder,

how that lady reached the sky.

My words may have two meanings As we call the piper to play, But the tune that he is trilling,

A spring clean for the month of May. Whichever road we travel,

Our shadows will lead the way, The Whispering Wind will guide us

To the place where we must stay. So climb your way up to heaven,

Shine a white light turning to gold While we all sit and wonder

How this tale came to be told. I‟m sure you will have guessed now

And be humming along with me As the music reaches crescendo The lady on the stairway you‟ll see.

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Rock Legend

My husband goes out on a Sunday night A session with mates and guitars.

Jamming to sounds they love to play Dreaming of being rock stars.

AC/DC to Zeppelin, and all points between, The band likes to play one and all.

Walls will shake and windows take strain, At the local primary school hall.

They play little gigs any pub, any club,

If asked, I‟m sure they‟ll be there. But I'm left at home to twiddle my thumbs By the window the dog sits to stare.

Out jamming every Sunday and Wednesday

BUT would be worse, if instead they came here. At least I get peace and quiet,

Not heavy rock perforating each ear.

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The Underground

When you visit our capital city, Most likely you‟ll travel by train.

It‟s the easiest way to get about, Whereas driving can be quite a strain.

The Metropolitan Railway,

In eighteen hundred and sixty three,

Was the start of the underground network Beloved by you and by me.

At first it ran close to the surface,

With normal sized trains on the track. But later, it was buried below ground,

And from then on, it never looked back.

With two hundred and seventy stations

And eleven individual lines, It carries a billion plus people.

One of England‟s most brilliant designs.

„The Tube‟ is what we all call it,

When we speak with pride and affection. But to use it would be quite confusing

If you don‟t have some sort of direction.

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Now to get to the heart of the matter.

There‟s someone I‟d just like to mention.

Henry Charles Beck, in 1931 Came up with a clever invention.

To find your way round the system, What you need of course, is a map.

Harry Beck, step forward and take a bow. You‟re a very ingenious chap!

You may never have heard of this fellow,

But give him three cheers when you ride On the London Underground system

For Harry‟s invaluable guide.

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Sausages

The whole world it seems eats sausages. To be frank, I don‟t see their appeal.

I‟d prefer a lamb chop or a casserole, Or even a nice slice of veal.

Minced pork in a pig‟s intestine Sounds highly unpleasant to me,

Yet the British they love nothing better

Than bangers and mash for their tea.

The Italians adore their salumi, The Anzacs prefer saveloy,

South Americans dine out on chorizo

And pinkel is what some folks enjoy.

There‟s bratwurst and bierwurst and bloedwurst, Chipolatas and liverwurst too.

Don‟t feel left out if you‟re vegetarian,

They even make sausage for you.

At the funfair, there are chips, toffee apples

And candyfloss-hot dogs as well. With onions and ketchup and mustard,

The crowds are beguiled by the smell.

A full English breakfast has bacon,

Black pudding, fried bread and baked beans. Tomato and egg- p‟raps a couple-

But never a portion of greens.

When you go on your annual holiday,

Don‟t fret that you won‟t like the food. Wherever you go there‟ll be sausage,

Be they roasted, grilled, fried, steamed or stewed.

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Christmas

Sitting cross-legged on the floor,

A small child. Before her, Strips of coloured paper,

Shiny on one side, Sticky on the other,

My regular Christmas task To wrap them round And lick

And stick. Yuk! I don‟t like the taste!

Still, it must be done, my special job. Don‟t forget to link them

Before you stick! And try to mix the colours.

Two reds together won‟t do! Stick and lick.

Lick and stick. The chain grows longer. I pretend it‟s a snake,

Exotic.

As long as my arm now. How much more? I weary of the linking.

“Mum! Have I finished?” She comes to help,

And soon we have Swathes of paper chain.

Enough to string across the room And back. Christmas can come now.

We‟re ready!

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A Lost Daughter

A page torn out of an old book,

Dog-eared, crumpled and discarded. The story makes no sense now.

A once much-loved tale, the page gone.

I rush to find the page-but it is gone. Blown down the street by an ill wind.

As a child, you loved that story –oft-repeated. The familiarity gave you security.

We shared it and smiled. But then, you didn‟t like that story any more.

When did that change? What made it happen?

You didn‟t want that story any more. Or me.

I try to rewrite the missing part, but to no avail. Let‟s turn back the clock And find the missing threads together. Please.

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Cosford Air Show 2009

„And next we have the spitfire…‟

Dumpy, rounded, comfy as gran, it sits there, drowsing in buttercups till the men reach up and tweak its nose

Twist, tweak, twist… with a startled snore, it wakes,

a muddled pause, and then shaking off sleep, it trundles at its tormenters,

fury hardening. They leap from its path as it sleeks to a dagger sweeps to skim, and finally lifts.

Seemingly slowly it climbs, turns and… suddenly it‟s in a roaring dive

a flash, a streak of steel – then it flicks like a whip

and shoots up straight and smooth as a candle. It flattens, zips across the sky a hunter, focussed, relentless

possessed, precise as a slicing scalpel. It swerves, banks,

and plunges. Then soars languid to roll in victory

as we applaud. My son, bright and quick and keen,

might have piloted such a thing. Is it a modern replica, I wonder,

or bits of several planes salvaged from hillsides and the sea.

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A room of one‟s own This room‟s organic, grown from earth that grows me. That rocker, blackened by a century, once stood by hefty saucepans on a fire,

sent joyful rootlets down through nursing babies, snug in shawl and bonnet, rocked vibrant seed leaves – May queens, cricket captains –– rocked grief‟s despair at ancient marriage smashed, as true leaves formed. The bed-chair‟s gnawed by tiny terrier teeth – Paddy. He watched my pram by the white scrubbed step in a street of skipping children,

and fragile side shoots ventured. The trousseau lace edging the tablecloth, was worked with desperate hope as hell screamed over Paschendael. The aunt who crocheted it fed me her lonely love, took me to theatres, bought poetry books, made fascination bud.

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And that Worcester jug, fine as the finest shell, sat on the sill I polished every week for pocket money. We‟d cluster in the sweetshop, girls in ironed ribbons, boys in knitted pullovers, suck pear drops, spearmint, lingo-fizz. The picture‟s Langdale, bog and gold bracken, wind in grey stone, primrose in straggling grass. We sat on a jetty, four boots dangling, ate buns with butter.

My student daughter bought the Cava bottle, bubbles to launch my business, the desk was my friend‟s, sleek VDU my husband‟s birthday present, my children holding babies, glow on the wall like tender fruit that nourishes yet. And still, my gran‟s little jade horse on the book-shelf, gallops towards the window.

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A giraffe has a long neck A giraffe has a long neck.

It s useful for looking over walls And eating fruit, from the top branch of a tree.

I wish I had a long neck. I could see over heads, in crowds,

Or have a clear view in the theatre, When the tallest person, ever,

Man and woman, sits directly down in front of me.

I am quite small, you see. I do not have a long neck!

Remember Me

Remember me. When you go forth into the light.

Remember me. Alone within the darkened night.

Remember me. Enfolded in your loving arms.

Remember me. And love and what true love demands.

Remember me. Break clear the chains that held us tight.

Remember me And keep our fragile love alight.

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The Big Wheel As rain drops freeze to snowflakes,

Cascading from night sky. Bright lights shine through the canvas, A picture sweeping by. The wheel spins round in movement, Silent, moving high, Cutting through the snowflakes, Bright against the sky. Hiding winter dullness. Cheering spirits, by, Turning gently round. Through the darken sky. A sight to vanish boredom, To lighten city square. Wonderland of winter, Start of Christmas fayre.

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My tears are the storm

My tears are the storm The rain that lashes down The droplets are the drizzle

And the showers make me drown The thunder clouds roll above And clash inside my head The pain inside multiplies As I lay beneath my bed Hiding from the claps of power The noise comes from the skies Tormenting what I'm hearing too This head from I cant hide The darkness spreads across the town Swallows me in depression

Hauling back past memories As i slip through into regression I do not see the lightening strike But I feel it in my soul Battering my spirit endless Like the storm I can‟t control

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The coldness wraps around me As the temperature outside falls Then numbness spreads so deep inside Everything I know stalls Taken by the storm And swept up by the wind Until it lets me fall someplace To the ground I feel pinned

Alone inside my head As the storm outside has died Bringing forth the sunshine But I am dead inside

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Tick Tick Tick

There it is

Tick tick tick In my head I'm getting sick

Someone enters My house tonight

They slam the door I jump in fright

Tick tick tick It isn‟t stopping In my head

Something's coming I check the house

I'm all alone There is nobody

Inside my home Tick tick tick Footsteps walking

I hear the faintness Of voices talking

Slamming doors Feet walking quick

It's in my head Tick tick tick Now I know

That I am sick I'm all alone

Tick tick tick

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Everything is nothing It's the nothingness That is everything The warmth, the silence Everything The thoughts that swirl Into oblivion It's the nothingness The rebellion The sounds of the world Turn to nothing Inside this house Empty is everything The voices and feelings Shatter to something Sharp and shiny

But I feel nothing The people around Are everything Until the day They turn to nothing

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Four Verses on Wellies

1. My wellies your wellies and kids wellies too, Clean wellies dirty wellies some there full of pooh,

New wellies old wellies some with holes right through, Country wellies town wellies, a big long rubber shoe,

Shiny wellies dull wellies and coloured wellies new, Chewed wellies torn wellies, on the bonfire threw,

Smelly wellies pongy wellies some we have out grew

Wellies we can‟t do without, often must renew.

2. Wellies large and large wellies small, of sizes there are many Some are black some are green, and they cost a pretty penny,

Some are painted in bright colours, but still ya feet they smell, Trample through the mud and ditches, through the house

as well.

3. The kids they have them round the farm, they hold the water

in, Walking out through deep puddles, wet through to the skin,

How much water they will hold, and your feet an-all, Tip them out on the door mat, make mother shout and bawl.

4. Ya ware them in the rain, and ya ware them in the snow,

Ya ware them in the mud, and everywhere you go, Ya keep them in the car, in case of floods you never know,

Ya can‟t do without them, left behind it is a blow,

And what I‟m looking for, my WELLIES high and low.

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Cattle on the Railway Line

One morning while milking cows, a phone call came from railway man,

It was the Bridgeford signal box, reported cattle onto line had ran, He put his signals onto caution, don't worry drivers on "visual", will

run

We race off down the Moor Lane, to cattle grazing in the morning sun.

Two trains they had already halted, and two more rolling to a stop, They left a gap through which to drive, cattle back to embankment

top, Four *lengthsmen helped and a driver, and hundreds of people

watched, Three express trains and one commuter, why their journey

scotched.

The cattle hopped cross four main lines, and back into the field,

Embankment fire had burned a post; rail fell down a gap revealed, We thanked the drivers and local men, for their quick advance,

Fast line trains do speed at seventy, cattle wouldn't stand a chance.

1960: The trains were nearly all pulled by diesels a few goods trains were still steam. Two trains had already stopped from north and two from south, (It's 4 sets of rail tracks running through our fields between Stafford and Great Bridgeford) everyone stuck their heads out of the carriage windows to see what had halted the journey. The cattle were recovered from the opposite embankment between the four locomotives. This is a very busy stretch of line, and is the main London to Scotland main line, the Royal Scot in the 1950s steamed past at full speed very day at three o'clock and back to return to London in the early hours of the morning. The steam express trains were pulled by named en-gines. *Lengthsmen; railway workers, looked after length of track, usually 3-4 miles per group of six.

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Keeping to the schedule (Oct. 2014)

The extension has tracks in the field,

Adds two level crossings to the yield. A dozen track sections, to add to the heap,

So says the schedule, that we're going to keep.

And the drainage is working out proper

So the track gang, won't come a cropper Although we'll have to wait for some heat To see if the schedule'll stay tidy and neat.

The walkers and riders around the area

Have all learned to 'mud dance' it seems No mud baths ashowing, they‟re still be on their feet.

And that's good for the schedule we'll keep.

Apart from the problems with points, Which is normal for all sliding joints.

The route to the Main line's been put down in the sleet, Weather not to schedule, the one that we'll keep.

The signalling system; that's being improved. There's a turntable to be mended and moved.

When that's done, the place can be made neat, So says the schedule that we're going to keep.

Some folks say, “What's the rush,

There‟ll never be that much of a crush.

Excursions to 'Queensville' won't pay the rent,” But that money's already been spent.

It's all on the schedule, The one that we'll keep.

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Keeping to the schedule (5)

Now it leads across the green,

Bends such as we never have seen. Dark against the ballasts' white. Leading the eye over the site.

Only six more panels to make,

And we can then all take a break. The terminal halt is now within reach,

Beating that schedule, one we said we'd keep.

We're ahead of the schedule, The new one that we'll keep.

And even if the track is uneven and steep, We can fix that problem, in our sleep.

There's a mort of work yet to be done, But the way we're going it's all just fun.

The signals team are putting in bits of the sun,

To keep us safe on the 'official' 1st run.

The duty signallers can't go to sleep

Their learning curve is very steep But it's all on the schedule,

The one that we'll keep.

Ris-

44


Almost Working to Queensville

It went down at the weekend

The halt at the end of the track Five cubic metres of Concrete,

There‟s no way that we're going back.

Tracking is down there already,

The turntable all made and prepared. We may have to do some track lifting,

But doing that won't get us scared.

The starting plans are in flux now.

We‟ve token posts dropped in on the run. Sorting out how to work them?

Now that's promises to be quite good fun.

Why token passing's been added,

When we've already an electrical one. Just what it's there for is the question,

But we'll give it a darned good run.

We have lots of things still to do,

Some levelling still to be nailed down.

With some five inch gauge to be finished, So the five-inch boys can run around town.

With winter now upon us,

We can't get to work as we'd like.

But spring will soon be with us, Then the jobs finished rate will hike.

Next summer we'll be working, timetabled,

And sailing steamboats on the lake.

We'll wonder why we ever worried about it, And laugh at ourselves in the break.

Assuming the plan doesn‟t get changed again!

Still

45

l i n k s

Up and running at last

The Directors had said we could afford it, There was enough cash in the bank to start

All we did was work at it, It was a work great of heart!

Planning permission was granted With many conditions attached,

We couldn't cut any trees down. The plans were somewhat rethatched.

Fifteen months and nobody shirking. The average age was seventy odd. Nine signals are all up and working,

Though some of them look rather odd.

Mixers and mud, meant 'No way' on site, But that the concrete it had to go down. Queensville platform was quite a sight,

As with wheelbarrows, we put it down.

Many documents need to be worked on With 'support structures' to be emplaced.

A new gateway needs our attention,

There's driver training still to be faced.

With just a bit more brick working,

Round the turntable ready in place. Now 'Queensville Excursions' we're running

And all with a smile on the face.

Ris-

46


Still

47

l i n k s

Acknowledgements Front Cover: "Kettenvergleich" by Ralf Roletschek (User:Marcela) Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia

Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kettenvergleich.jpg

Back Cover: RBW Patron Ian McMillan, image: A Mealing Page 4: SM Spiers Page 41: CM Hewitt

Page 44: SM Spiers Lest we forget: the beautiful mature Crack Willow tree felled in 2015 in Hesketh Road, very near to the

library, when the blocks of derelict flats were demolished. Another link to our past severed.

Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where the source permits not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‟s

copyright be accidentally infringed please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.

Ris-

48


LINKS

is Rising Brook Writers‟

2016 poetry collection: containing work by

RBW‟ contributing poets who participate in

Rising Brook Writers‟ weekly library and online

workshops.

RBW Patron: The Renowned Poet

Ian McMillan

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

A voluntary charitable trust RCN 1117227

links 2016 poetry collection

Documents