EDGEWISE

The work the Bridgnorth Writers Group have completed as part of the 'Out Here' project is to be presented in two ways:

• An anthology of short prose and poetry
• A performance of new writing and songs about the local area.
  
  7.30 pm Saturday Nov 14th
  Cinnamon Café, Bridgnorth
  
  7.30pm Saturday Dec 5th
  Priory Hall, Much Wenlock
  
  £3.00 (£2.00 under 18s) –
  includes free copy of our new
  collection of writing.

Our Hard Working Editorial Team

The work Bridgnorth Writers have produced for the 'Out Here' project has now been submitted and our hard working editorial team ( Nadia, Nick and Dave ) are busy selecting and editing work and organising the anthology.
This should be available for sale at the performance at the Cinnamon Bar on Saturday, November 14th.

'Underground' by Paul Francis

Under Ground

You’d never guess. Beneath the contoured slopes,
green folds descending to the valley floor,
a catacomb of filth. Two shafts drove down,

one each side of the river, then across
below the bed. A tunnel bridged the gap
from Highley here to Alveley, the two

bolted together by a subterranean link.
A hundred years of grubbing, chipping, graft
are covered over by oblivious clay.

The railway which had started off a boom
is cloaked in cobwebs, dusted off, revived
at weekends, puffing out nostalgic steam.

Five years after the final pit lamp died
a girl at home was kidnapped from her bed
and driven off, to sixty miles away.

Not any girl. ‘Heiress’ the paper said.
Her dad’s coach business going well,
so when he died she got the legacy.

You’d never guess. An ordinary bloke
who’d had a go at building, doing odd jobs.
His name – you’ll like this bit – was Nappey.

Read it, once. But then imagine, count
how many times the kids at school would laugh.
When his daughter’s born he has it changed.

So it’s Neilson that reads the article.
How Lesley Whittle, seventeen, is worth
eighty-two thousand quid. He waits three years.

How does that work? What surface reasoning
can sift the ore, or analyse the mix
of grievance with entitlement?

He plans, he moves, he drives her in the dark.
Her brother gets the note, prepares to trade:
just fifty thousand for his sister’s life.

He’s late. “Look for a flashing torch” it said.
There’s not a glimmer. It looks desolate.
A hoax maybe, the police announce.

There’s door to door, there’s sniffer dogs.
Enquiries proceed in fog for weeks
until they find her, hanging in a drain.

Two hundred yards away, she is, from where
her brother came to ransom her. Just why
they’ve not searched there is anybody’s guess.

Detectives deal in hunches. Not a science
- but it’s still possible to get it wrong.
Later, the Chief is put back on the beat.

Neilson’s caught by chance. Just questioning,
a sawn-off shotgun, then a hi-jacked car.
Locals dive in. He’s lucky to survive.

At intervals, Home Secretaries confirm
he won’t come out. Motor Neurone disease
will intervene to settle any doubts.

He goes to the High Court, aged 72.
His hands and legs are useless, so he asks
to have his term cut down to thirty years.

But terror stalks us all. Judges don’t see
a frail old man. BLACK PANTHER, still, in bold,
in capitals, stalking their memories.

Any day now, discreetly, with a spade,
we’ll put him where the pit is, out of mind,
where she is buried in oblivious clay.

'You Must Remember This' by Tom Wentworth

“Geoff,” said Margery, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Do you think I’m losing my memory?”
“What’s brought this on?” said Geoff, peering over his copy of The Guardian. It was typical of Margery to find something to worry about, especially since the children had left home, but he hoped that there was nothing wrong.
“Well...” She sat down, laying the dishcloth on the table in front of her. “I went shopping, and then I got talking to Irene yesterday in the High Street… and even though it was on my list I still came back without any biscuits… the one’s you like.”
“Oh. Well…” said Geoff, feeling suddenly relieved. “We all do that; go upstairs and find we didn’t bring down the thing that we went up for.” Geoff tried not to let his face betray his disappointment. It was coffee time and he reflected that a buscuit would have slipped down very nicely with a cup of that new richly blended coffee that Margery liked to buy from Sainsbury’s.
Margery set Geoff’s mug on the table and sat down, but he had already started getting up. “It’s alright, I’ll take mine into the other room.”
Margery watched him go, knowing that she’d get no peace now, as Geoff would be wanting to come in to show her things from one of their many photograph albums. It was his current interest and while she didn’t mind, it was nice, occasionally, to have some peace and quiet. The children had filled there lives for so many years…
“Love,” Geoff pondered as he re-entered the kitchen. “You know when we first met…? I was just looking at that photograph. “
“Yes,” she said. “Outside the Town Hall. After seeing a production of.… oh, you know, one of those Gibert and Sullivan operas.”
“Trial By Jury” supplied Geoff.
“That’s right. Never my favourite.”
“It was such a special evening. The start of something…” Geoff’s eyes were alight all off a sudden and Margery thought how well he looked.
“As we walked out into the town, I thought this is where I want to spend the rest of my life and on my arm is the woman that I want to share it with.
Margery was sure that she could feel herself blush but said nothing. Then Geoff continued, “…and then I said that you were a very pretty girl.” Geoff was in full flow, lost in the moment but suddenly Margery couldn’t hear him.
“No you didn’t.” She looked straight into Geoff’s eyes with sudden accusation in her own. “You said I was the most beautiful girl in the world.”
They looked at one another.
“Did I?” Geoff said with a surprised smile.
“Oh yes,” said Margery with a smile. “Now, I do remember that.”

'The Case of the Teddy Bear Killers' by Tom Bryson ( an extract from a proposed book for older children )

‘Run, run, they’re back,’ the frightened Snadger’s cry rang out down Lincoln Hill in Coalbrookdale.
Cadgermolewagger swept from his secret crevice deep in the limestone cave. He cried in fury as he saw the approaching Diggermen. He quickly rounded up his followers and they fled into the burrowed limestone rock.
It was the year 1789 when Snadgers fought to bury their thin forms deep in the limestone caverns of Coalbrookdale. It was not easy to hide from the Diggermen - miners who wielded their pickaxes with fury, sweat dripping from their chalk-white faces, coughing as their lungs accumulated the deadly dust. Primitive organisms, as the Snadgers were, they knew that if they didn’t escape the shovels that scooped the limestone into iron bogies, they were doomed. The laden bogies, and the trapped Snadgers would be hauled down the iron tracks to the Ironworks; where The Furnace waited.
But despite the never ending excavations all the way down Lincoln Hill, despite the flailing arms of the limestone miners, despite the inexorable attrition in their numbers as the gouged valley deepened – some Snadgers survived. They slunk away into the recesses of the woods, hid in the shelter of the great Atlas Cedar tree, clung to each other as the Coalbrookdale company workers passed along on their Sabbath Walks. In their clean shirts and tall hats they looked respectable God-fearing citizens on a Sunday outing; to the Snadgers they were those Monday to Saturday devils in disguise.
One such Snadger was Cadgermolewagger. As thin as a pencil but blessed with the magic skills of the shape-changer, he was able to escape their toiling hands by expanding, contracting, wriggling, twisting, hopping and flying; at times he became as a speck of dust, at others an unbreakable rock of limestone as hard as granite. But Cadgermolewagger was an exception – a once in a generation born Snadger. He was also a Leader.
‘Follow me,’ he cried. ‘We must organise, we can fight back, we can stop the Diggermen, the Fireburners and the Iron Horses.’ As one, the rest of the Snadgers moved in line behind Cadgermolewagger ;a column of white stick-like ants they moved up the steep hill. Some cowered in fear, others held their slender forms erect, unwilling to show how scared they were; some slumped, fell by the wayside, gave up the battle. But Cadgermolewagger pressed on until they came to a place of safety.
It is recorded in the Ledgers of Snadger history that it was in this day in 1790, in the woods alongside what is today known as the Lodge Field, a great Council of the Snadgers was held. Cadgermolewagger addressed the community of Snadgers and laid down the ‘Three Principles’ that were to be their watchword henceforth.
‘One – Ours is the Natural World. The Diggermen, Fireburners, and Iron Horses will one day be driven from the land that we will once again possess – we Snadgers are of Nature and Nature will always out.
‘Two – We must fight the Diggermen, Fireburners and Iron Horses - we Snadgers will use our great gift bestowed by the law of nature – flesh-burning.
‘Three – the followers and descendants of the Diggermen, Fireburners, and Iron Horses must be sought out and destroyed.’
Throughout the limestone caves of Coalbrookdale a great shout rang out, that hammered down the Severn Gorge, drowned the clanging hammers and roaring furnaces of the Iron Works, was heard as far away as Coalport. The Snadgers hailed Cadgermolewagger, joined forces and vowed to the God of Nature to defeat the usurpers who would tear them from the earth itself, destroy them in the Great Furnace.
Cadgermolewagger held high an effigy of the Fireburners, a figure made of straw, leaves and twigs bound with the bark of the Acer tree. He held it aloft and his shape changed, his body swelled to the size of a Fireburner, a face as pale as death sprouted up from his frame, bared teeth flashed and with a roar of roar of rage Cadgermolewagger bit off the head of the effigy.

Severn Gorge Trip, Sunday, July 26th

We started the day by walking to The Rotunda










where we looked along the Severn Gorge











and over to The Wrekin.










Then we descended into Coalbrookdale












to the Museum of Iron











where we met Abraham Darby the Third













and some shire horses.









We, also, found the furnace which Abaham Darby ( the First )
used to smelt iron with coke ( instead of charcoal ) 300 years ago:
a process which kick-started the Industrial Revolution.

A short walk took us to the Greenwood Centre where we had
lunch and met 'Woody the Hoody' and a nymph rising from a tree.

After our meal we set off towards the River Severn











where we saw the old warehouses and former railway
lines which took goods made in this area to The Wharfage
from where they were transported down the river to Bristol.



























Rain fell as we walked to The Ironbridge but
such a magnificent sight lifted our spirits!!!












The End

'Going, Going, Gone' by Martin White

‘For the last time -is there any advance on twenty eight thousand pounds? Twenty eight thousand for this desirable property, The Rectory, Hodge Bower. Twenty eight thousand.’
The auctioner paused and looked around the small group of people assembled in the dingy assembly room of the Tontine Hotel in the centre of Ironbridge.
'For the last time twenty eight thousand pounds. Going, going gone! Sold to the gentleman in the second row.’
It was 1979 and Martin felt the shock of acquiring a three-storey, semi-derelict house in an overgrown bramble-laced Edwardian garden. He and his wife had noticed the house for sale in the evening newspaper a week before. They visited and found it had been empty for two years after the death of the Rector of the local church , a much loved man in the locality.
Those years had taken their toll with dampness and fungoid growths in the rooms, no central heating , an ancient bathroom and a cramped kitchen. It was not an inviting prospect for their young family. And yet ......
The house stood on the northen slopes of the Ironbridge Gorge looking toward the tree- covered slopes of Benthall Edge on the other side of the river. A network of paths and narrow roads connected them with the heart of the village, the Iron Bridge, the Tontine Hotel and the market square. It was a romantic location. And it was an exciting time; Martin had come to work on the New Town that was rehabilitating the ravages of the worked out East Shropshire coalfield and Ironbridge was just beginning to attract people reckless enough to attempt to colonise and reinvigorate a very derelict town.
Martin and Judy spent a week of frenzied activity , estimating the cost of making the house habitable, arranging a mortgage, agreeing a loan with a very reluctant bank manager. They had hardly any time to consider the life changing implications of what they were taking on. There had not been many bidders at the evening auction. Just them and another couple, surrounded by onlookers curious to see who would be mad enough to buy a property that most probably thought best demolished.
And so the tap of an auctioneer’s gavel signaled a life-defining moment.

'Some Things a Townie Learnt on a Trip to a South Shropshire Dairy Farm' by David Bingham

It’s a myth that cows lie down when it’s going to rain.

Sitting on a bale of straw is very comfortable.

The ideal shorthorn dairy cow is wedge-shaped from back to front and from top to bottom.

Farm cats are nosey and follow strangers around.

A dairy farmer knows each cow in his herd by name and will have his favourites.

A farmer’s son can ride his bike up a steeply-sloping, rutted field

A cow which is too intelligent can be as much a liability as one which is not too bright.

Dairy farmers like to have an afternoon nap between milking times as they get up early in the morning.

A farmer is usually quietly spoken; but if he tells his son to collect a calf from the high field, then his son goes and collects a calf from the high field.

The best way for a townie to cross a field with a herd of cows is to walk through calmly and ignore them.

Hens lay eggs in the strangest of places.

'Coalport Morning' by Marilyn Gunn

Dawn trees
with their long low companionable shadows
they would not be parted from;

it is as if they carry on the breath:
those new earth mornings of candescent light,
spreading their beams across millennia
to reach this place.

Nothing has changed,
nothing escapes the soft flood,
the bright benediction of slant rays
firing up dew, kindling grass
on this next in the chain of first days:

light the frail touch paper
every leaf burns.

Remember that morning
when bird-song dazzled us awake?
And how we lay there then listening
in the hush of the great afterwards silence
that expanded around us;

And then the green, whispering,
calling us,
drawing us out.

'Amongst the Horses' by Tom Wentworth

Do you see that speck upon the hill so high?
I see everything from my position down below;
they do not stir,
they do not shake their tails
in the silky, cinematic landscape
and as the breeze rushes past,
they do not stir again:
the paths of one thousand giants
crunch and crackle like the mints
that the horses love so much.
I would not touch them,
would not dare;
a shaggy set they are
but content like teddy bears of suede.
The thickness of the tufts of grass decrease,
as I am swallowed,
but an earthy smell rises,
silvery statues, left to days of sun.
The sun has retired
and so must I
I am the horse whisperer.

'Progress' by Paul Francis

From a display at Acton Scott, 20.6.09


Good housewives, mother taught me
As I swept the kitchen floor
Spin thread at home on wheels
Made by Edward Bore.

As parish clerk he’d gathered
A little local fame
But it was the beauty of his wheels
That truly made his name.

When new machines made cheaper thread
No knocking at his door.
His humming lathe was still; he died
Unrecognised and poor.


Paul Francis

Trip to Acton Scott Farm Museum and Cherry Oaks Farm , Saturday 19th June

In the morning we went to Acton Scott to see how

farming was done in the past.

We chatted to a 'bodger' who showed us how to make

chairs from green wood,

saw some sheep,

a midden in the farmyard,

a Tamworth pig and some piglets

shire horses being groomed

a dairy maid making butter and

lots,lots more.

After lunch we went to Cherry Oaks Farm to see how

farming is done today.

First we went to visit the recent calves

and David demonstrated how to 'show' a calf

as you would at an agricultural show.

Then we visited the milking parlour,

the dairy

and watched the tanker come to collect the milk.

All the time we were closely followed by the

farm cat who likes to know what's going on.

At the end of the tour, we went up to the meadow and

Neil explained to us what makes a good shorthorn dairy cow.

Before going home we were treated to tea and chocolate cake

and we discussed some of the advantages and disadvantages

of being a farming family today.

We would like to thank Neil, Jayne and David very much

for taking the time to show us around their farm

'Lady Labouchere Becomes a Fly on the Wall in the Pantry of Dudmaston Hall' by Nadia Kingsley

“Easter has been quite eventful... our footman decided he would like the weekend free with his fiancee (found by advertisement, a nurse I understand). So he told us his papa had been knocked down by a motor bicycle and was likely to die! He however did not depart until the following morning, and later the butler discovered that there had been no accident in the neighbourhood. We await his return...! I should like to be a fly on the wall in the pantry! Our butler is about really to enjoy himself, and I think we shall be a footman the less.” Quote from Lady Labouchere


Hey this is fun! Walking
vertically, not a care in the world.
Without turning my head
I can see the footman sneaking
in, through the door.

He carries the scent of flowers.
I rub my legs together and I
taste lavender. There’s red
on his collar - it could be jam -
I’ll just fly over.

There’s a gust of wind as
the butler storms in; it turns
out to be lip colour - his nurse
has been kissing him better.
The footman slowly

wafts his hand towards me.
The butler lifts his too, in anger.
His mouth is wide, his face
purple like an azalea.
I watch, then as

the butler booms and shouts
I try walking on the ceiling.
I can’t hear their words,
and the cheese on the shelf
is very distracting.

'The View from up here' by Beverley Fry

Ahead, and scattered far and wide
discarded feathers, preened out,
strew the waterside.

My child selects those that are slender, thin,
the plumes, they tickle him beneath his chin
and laughing he finds more,
from wings the shafts are firm, straight quills.
In ripples of air he feels their lift,
and thrills, he knows for sure they’ll drift.

Along the lake edge yellow iris bloom,
golden lily, fleur de lys,
they rise above leafy spears that merge
thick among the seeding bulrush stick.
Coots, skim like stones, their sharp calls
plunge arrow-heads of alarm, say hide,
to their fluff-black, red-topped young,
who bob up, tweeting at their side.

And on the bank, our boy, a spike of feathers
bunched in either hand, arms pumping hard
he leaves the land. Says, look, see I can fly,
I can fly.
This becomes the child’s constant cry.

Wind-waves dismiss a mirror image of the house
but fathom-folds of green support a prettier show;
water lilies float white saucers of light
that shelter trout, eels, clams with pearls below.


Hello, hello, his airborne song to a surprised grebe,
it dives, distracts him he just skims the boat house.
First flights are tricky, and shouts back good bye,
then says, come with me we’ll fly and fly and fly.


Ascending the gardens grassy slope,
he spots stone steps, his sharp eyes see
small daisies, and asks,
are you looking up at clever me?

He turns and with alarming aerobatic grace
approaches the Halls formidable south face,
and in the leaded window glass catches
a quick image of his body flying past.

Below, the apron lawn is spread
with flowers from their flowery bed
and trees, in blossom dripping pinks and red
and groups of tiny people who snake a tail,
along the wooded lakes fine muddy trail.

On a chimney pot I see my child,
and wave, wonder can he see me?
Breathless he looks down, he pants,
I see you, but you’re small as ants,
and I am huge, he says, as big, as big as you.

Then with a hooting yell he opens up his palms
his feathers fall he leaps,
and luckily for him,
I open up my arms.

'The Cat of Kinver Edge' by Peter Hodges

The afternoon was warm but there was a change in the air. The cat knew this because its fur crinkled along its back. On the escarpment, even the goats had felt the change and had moved down the slope to find a hollow in gorse or heather where they could shelter. Tethered cattle had lain down, chewing and waiting. A man with an ox-cart was heading home.

Cat toured the scene, there was time yet for a mouse or vole. He moved with care, his fur, as he brushed aside the grass, was eased of its electricity. Cat was proud, a captain of these parts, the caves and gardens and up onto the heath. Cat knew the animals and they knew him. There was respect. Not so the humans. The one, the old woman, whose cave he kept free of vermin, was as fickle as any. Yet, in return for his labours he received a few scraps from her table. But this afternoon she was cleaning, sweeping and scolding, and he'd been ordered out or he'd feel her broom about his back.

People were like that, erratic, impulsive, make a lot of noise and dust to no purpose. Cat spied a movement, a blade of grass. Not a mouse but a sudden shift in the air. He moved higher, wreathing his way to the top to see along the escarpment, to see a flurry of dust and within it, as if caged, a man clutching its hat, wielding the staff it held, head bent and running with the wind and dust until it was at the very edge. A flash came and a crash of thunder, the man let out a cry and went headlong over Cat with flailing limbs to disappear down the escarpment.

Cat did not like storms, the bigness and the noise, and hated his fur wet. He went after the man to seek shelter. Another crash and he scuttled down the steep slope, dodging this way and that. But the man saw him and shouted, "Hey, you cat, show me where." But the cat only ran the faster, leaping and launching as great spots of rain began to fall. He heard the shout again but he was by now in full flight, spurred on by the crashing from behind of feet and thunder, until he reached the caves and the place where tools were kept, and where, behind a spade, he found shelter.

The man fetched up in a heap by a door. Two girls, curious at this sudden pandemonium, opened the door and looked down at the unhappy individual.
"It is like the gates of Hell had opened to take me in," gasped the man. "Then I am led here by a cat. Where is the creature? I owe my life to a cat, indeed I do."
The sisters looked at each other, then the first, on seeing it was a gentleman, said, "You'd best come inside, sir." They stood aside as he struggled to his feet, hid their amusement at seeing the tear in his breeches and his shirt poking out, a once fine shirt now drenched and dirtied. At this a voice called from the depths of the cave, and an old dame came into view. "That's right, sir, you come inside. Daughters, bring up a chair and see to the kettle. Sit yourself down, sir, pull close to the fire."

"Well, madam," began the fellow recovering some composure. "I am much obliged to you. And to the cat that led me here." But on looking around saw no sign of the animal. He sat himself, the fire was poked into life, sparks leapt into the chimney. As his eyes grew accustomed, he made out a sandstone cave, well hewn and capacious, a window, sideboard and plates, table with loaf of bread, in the grate the kettle began to sing.

"Allow me to hang up your shirt, sir," said the woman. "You will take refreshment?"

What need to ask? He ate heartily, and the sisters crept closer to better observe. He nodded to them and asked about the cat. "Where is the creature that saved my life?" One of them went to the door and made beckoning noises, and a small face of wet fur looked in. But the old dame would have none of it. She snatched up her broom and swung it at the animal.

"No, madam…" cried the man. "Let it be, let it be. See how wet it is."

"Oh, sir," answered the woman, "It is a lazy thing. If it comes inside it will be to beg and then won't eat my mice and rats."

"But a small reward, a little thanks, I'm sure will not be amiss." And so the cat came in, eyed the woman, and with its tail held high, pressed itself to the man's leg. Breaking a morsel of bread from the loaf, he offered it to the cat but the animal only sniffed.

"You see, sir," said the woman, "The cat knows its place," and she twitched the broom.

With that the man produced a purse from his pocket, and there came the sound of coin. He said in lowered voice, "Well, cat, will you take gold for your troubles?"
The cave fell silent but for the storm raging outside. Rain battered the window, the door rattled on the latch. But the cat was inside, arched its back, one eye on the broom, the other on the man, the gold near its nose.

"Answer me, cat?"

"Now, sir…" intervened the woman but the man put up his hand.

"Madam, my enquiry is to the cat."

"But, sir…"

"It was the cat that brought me."

"Sir, it is only a cat."

"Madam, it is my life it saved." The coin glinted in the light of the fire, the man stroked the drying fur. "Shall I give it to your mistress?" he said. "Or shall I not?" The cat purred and put out its tongue. "Shall I put it back into my pocket? What do you say, cat?"

The cat purred more. The woman's hands trembled on the broom. She was afraid to speak or move lest the cat run off with the gold, out into the tempest and never to be seen again.

"Tell me, cat. Say what you wish. Let everyone know that you are the good cat who brought me here to be given shelter and succour."

The cat's rough tongue reached out to touch not upon the gold but the hand that held it. "Ah… so that is it," said the man. "Do you see, madam, the cat refuses the gold. See, how he looks at you for he wishes you to have it. Now, is that not good payment for his keep?"

Two Poems by Beverley Fry

Song Tree

At 3 pm
chattering bird-babble
shakes us from the house,
a flying orchestra,
one thousand
morphing birds swirl over,
to settle in the ash.

A dressing of starlings
trinket up bare boughs;
notes on a score,
black cut-out’s,
feather flat
and facing south.

This tree-break interval
this highway rest
for winging minstrels,
one body in their flight
their perch, their song.

A silent siren call
and branches lift,
as shadows rise in shoals,
mid-verse, move on.



White Water

A sheep-shorn hungry land
wind dry and lonely.
Scarred rust red,
with a dead bracken-crust
over tender shoots.

Ewes knot together,
and lamb in scraped hollows.

Buzzards shadow’s trail
the slopes, skim dips,
scour lichen crevices.

Absolution bursts,
splits rock, bubbles
out through silted bogs.
White water-knife,
slices new routes,
sings cascades, leaps fish
on flooded earth.

Massing river sounds gather
as in a record’s repeating curve,
hissing them to the needle’s skip.
An endless round
sucked central,
to an oceans heaving call.

'Wenlock Land' by Paul Francis

1.
Inching its way
up from the South Atlantic
across the years and miles

the snail paced whale
emerges, landlocked:
Wenlock Edge.

2.
The massive Priory stones
mark out the landing strip,
grey pillars paced on green,

the flight path’s ending
where the Wenlock monks
received their sacrament.

3.
God made, and owned the land.
Then came the brainwave : trade.
Who got to own the land?

The lucky, shrewd and powerful;
survivors, favourites of the court,
the rich who could buy more.



4.
An old map named the fields
in a quilt of tenancy –
The Little Batch,

Waggoners Field, Cuckoo’s Nest,
Far Newtown Meadow,
The Big Pale Piece.


5.
Victorian geologists
imperial in ambition
began to chart the rocks.

Wenlock limestone, Shineton shale
are stamped indelibly,
staking their claim.




6.
Within this tiny space, extremes.
The Priory Lodge, sodden with history,
costs thousands to maintain.

Along the High Street, cottages
repainted, in their timbers know
the floods will come again.


7.
Time to declare an interest.
The councillor behind the housing deal
(whose father was a ratcatcher)

preaches development, but knows
the new estate will kill the view,
bury allotments, make him rich.

8.
The town expands
stretching the surface skin
as buildings ripple out.

The shabbiest barn
the smallest plot
become desirable.


9.
Concentric lines spread out
as new-built brick springs up,
inflates the town balloon.

Newcomers at the edge
oppose the further spread
which blocks their sight of fields.

10.
The old dig in. The young
look out, move out. They know
this cannot be their home.

Wages, prices: hemispheres apart.
The myth of ownership
does not belong to them.

'A Golden Fish' by Dave Bingham

A golden fish
from the Ching Dynasty,

in a blue-rimmed bowl,
in a blue-waved sea;

he’s looking out,
he’s staring at me,

that golden fish
from the Ching Dynasty

Trip to Dudmaston Hall, Sunday, 19th May

We started the day with a session in which Paul and Miriam ( from Border Poets ) introduced us to the potential that Dudmaston Hall holds for writers.















Then we went on the Dingle Walk where Miriam showed us a talking tree ....












a millstone, a lake













and the gardens.













We had our shared lunch which, as usual, was more than we could eat and ...












in the afternoon we spent a couple of hours in the house seeking inspiration















which we turned into poems on our return.

'Dwellings' by Nick Pearson

Sixty seven was the year of setting free,
final eviction from a sideshow family life
serving teas from a kitchen in a cave.
After that day trippers out walking the Edge
could no longer stop to meet the Flintstones,
ponder a world deep beyond their window.

No more generations rocking in the hole,
winding the deep well in apron or smock.
No more tinted memories in black and white
of smoky winter warmth and airy summer cool.
No ozone flap of laundry on the roof terrace,
no place for scythe or besom against a wall.

The Seventies ruined Holy Austin for real.
Without guardians she regressed, lost her grip,
let vandals in to ruminate and urinate,
to smoke out and litter out her lonely rooms.
They only made the most of what they found:
house to cave, rock to wreck, dust again to dust.

Lucretia, Benjamin, Thomas, Sarah, John,
all of the names and their earth-honest trades
have gone forever, won’t live there anymore.
But postcard perfect rehab still leaves room
for history’s penknife on red-stone walls:
ban the bomb, a heart; Kenny, Sandra, England.

'The Zeppelin of Kinver Edge' by Tom Bryson

Tom has edited this story so it is now a performance piece.
It can be found in the blog entries for April 2009

'Save the Children' by Dorothy Leiper

Today I became invisible, ignored,
bumped into once, but never bored.
Clutching a red collection box, badge secured
to my coat, I took my place
between the butcher's and Ladies Fashion.
Watched people go by, studied faces.

An elderly gent stood to one side as
his well-dressed companion in
last year's lime peered through the glass
at this Spring's offerings in dusky rose.
A sideways glance took in my tin,
he looked away, wiped his nose.

A friend clocked me as he passed the Town Hall
but did not see me. He was diverted.
Something across the road suddenly had all
his attention. He crossed, eyes averted.

I rock back and forth so the coins clink.
We're not allowed to rattle or shake.
A teenager pretends not to hear, slinks
by, feet scuffing, a sad little dog
dragging in her wake.

A cheery bloke accepts the label proffered.
“Thanks love. That'll stop me being accosted
again.” I can not help but snicker
at the thought of ladies leaping out
at passers by unprotected by a sticker!

A friend comes over to chat, or to mock
Fishing in her purse for coins to donate
I hold out the box, check the Town Hall clock.
My stint is nearly over, my duty done.
She grins, “You look like a living statue”.
“Not any more,” I say, “I'm off. It's after one!”

'Warning' by Geoff Speechley

Rushing downstairs to catch the six o’clock news tonight
I just heard the words “More than forty percent today of children
Are born illegitimate outside of Wenlock” ; and the horror
Of this dramatic announcement shocked me to the core.

Surely it cannot be true ? Is there such a passion,
A river of lust flowing through this gentle Shropshire town
known for its delightful pastries cooked lovingly by the W.I
or is “Womens Institute” a cover for a secret band of
Unrepentant nymphomaniacs ?

I think of the Wenlock women Of my acquaintance ; Miss, X , Mrs Y,
Can they be…? Were those welcoming smiles really offering… something else?
Can life in this pretty county be a hotbed of hotbeds
Writhing with frustrated mothers manquèes who leap
Upon unsuspecting men to wreak their maternal will
And achieve paternal fill?

At the end of the news I listened
Again, anxious to confirm my fears. Then the word I heard
Was “wedlock”, followed by a commercial ditty.
I sighed, a broken dream – the more’s the pity.

Two Poems by Marilyn Gunn

Spring Cockerel

There is no containing the cockerel
with his pennants of shot taffeta;
he is a free flag taken any way the wind blows
and it goes all ways this April;

comb fat as blisters
blood-roe wattle clusters
and that tiny bright eye, a wet pebble,
winking as he backs off,
Lord of the rutted mud, leaving the whickering
horse-shed with its pails of grain
to strut his proud retreat: a fat lady
braced on purposeful legs,
her packed grocery-bagged body
hoisted beneath outheld wings;

all feather glitter
all April dazzle
haughty to the cover of the thorn
where, watchful for the signal of our turned backs
he’ll return.



Slug Eggs

Like the first earlies
white from black peat –
a fine crop.

Sun glitters the perfect ovals
between my fingers,
coming out clean as a whistle,
one only puckering from burst skin.

Little amber life-jelly
even in such heat, burned through
to the core, it holds firm.

On what night did she haul up the sack,
her thick jaffa keel
rubbering in under wet plastic
to loose this stash: gelatinous pearls
laid in a wash of earth?

Kinver Trip, Sunday April 19th, PART 2

We had our lunch at the Old House tearoom
























































and then visited the Rock Houses.

and finished the day with refreshments in

the gardens of the National Trust tearooms.

Kinver Trip, Sunday, June 19th, PART 1

Peter , met us and gave us a selection of routes to follow.

One group visited the church ( Dorothy in an inspired mood sitting on a bench )

and the canal

and the River Stour















The other group walked past the Rock Houses and
















to the top of Kinver Edge where Tom explained the view.































Then they walked around the ramparts of the Iron Age hill fort,
















down to the High Street















and along to the canal.