30 June 2012



Our lives were built like these limestone walls
Stone by stone
Hewn from the earth.
Fiddlers in “The Bull’s Head”
Bowed for lead man and shepherd alike
Jigs reeling across
Our sweet green  pastures
Where  lambs grew fat
And other places
Seemed so

But now
Our lives are like the vehicles on the turnpike road
Flashing by
To satnav destinations.
Strangers in barn conversions
Chase magazine dreams and eat
Fajita ready meals.
Even “The Bull” has gone -
Like the school -
And what we had
Seems so very


  1. This seems just like my "Florabelle Oxley (1918 - 2007)" -- that is, a monologue -- except that you started each line with a capital letter.

    Is that what makes it poetry? Starting each line with a capital letter?

    For the record, I enjoyed it.

  2. Where is Wardlow in relation to Sheffield?

  3. RHYMES WITH PLAGUE You have waved some meat at the caged dog and poked him with a stick but he isn't responding. Wardlow is a tiny linear village south west of Sheffield - in what we call The White Peak - limestone country. I'm pleased you enjoyed it because when I wrote this poem I wasn't sure how readers might see it.

  4. Living in the same place my ancestors grew up -- actually that little shack reminds me of my house -- this poem toggled feelings I have at least twice a day. The old house endures. The old trees endure, the weeds slink right back as soon as someone turns their back. But the people and their lives and expectations have changed so much. I'm always debating with myself whether that's good or bad. It's not entirely either one.

  5. JAN It pleases me that my little poem "toggled" feelings in your own mind about past and present and that it was able to travel so far.


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