'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