Main Street, Shap, Cumbria, CA10 3NL
The following poetry has been submitted by some of those who attend writing workshops at The Old Courthouse facilitated by Susan Allen, Community Engagement Officer for the Wordsworth Trust. Before lock-down the writing workshops were taking place monthly and Susan is still providing a monthly theme to respond to for those who are interested. Please contact s.allen@wordsworth.org.uk for further details.
Submissions of poetry are open to all and are not confined to the suggested theme. We would be delighted if you would like to share your poetry with us. A new selection of poetry will be posted at the end of June.
Please submit to janet@theoldcourthouse.org
75th Anniversary of VE Day 8th May 2020
by Jean Scott-Smith
To celebrate VE Day seventy-five was the plan
And we'd gather together in one big Shap clan
There'd be tea in the hall, and we'd dance and sing
Dance music would play and the church bells ring
We'd keep silence and toast the Heroes at three
And we'd all give thanks that our nation is free.
The Home Schooling the topic is World War Two
The question being asked 'what did your family do?'
Albums and boxes of photos, bits and bobs from a tin
Told how our ancestors fought so Europe could win
War Hero great, great, Grandad donned khaki again *
His son, Stanley, joined the RAF but did not fly a plane.
Great Grandma Josie, she worked hard on the land
Great Grandad John patrolled with Shap's ARP band
These pictures of them all in the war are like gold
And their medals and badges to look at and hold
Tom wears the ARP badge and medal over his heart
To proudly show how our family all played their part.
It's VE Day on the eighth day of May
But we're all told we must stay away
The birds sing loudly in the trees
And bunting flutters in the breeze
We all dress in red, white and blue
That is surely the right thing to do
The music of Vera and Glenn is played
Along the wall top afternoon tea is laid
We keep silence for those who set us free
And still raise a glass to the heroes at three
We sit in the garden and tap our feet
We wave to the folks across the street
The sun shines down on a lovely sight
The lockdown rules are the only blight
We watch the Queen - long may she reign
And then all sing together 'We'll meet Again'
A photographer comes and takes a snap
To record how we marked VE Day in Shap
* Company Sergeant Major Robert Scott-Smith DCM, a veteran
of World War One donned uniform again to do his bit.
Stanley Scott-Smith served in the RAF and remained in the
service into the mid 1950s.
Josephine Howe (later Johnson) worked on Lowther Estate
in the productive gardens.
John Johnson joined Shap ARP cycling from Wet Sleddale
each evening to do his patrol.
Bird Song
by Jean Scott-Smith
Did ye ivver get up i' a mornin' et five
Aboot back end o' May er i' June
Ther's music a main just when it's leet
When aw oor burds er i' tune
Heste hard a lark sing atween fower and five?
Er a throstle a bit efter three?
Ah've got up o purpose, Aye, many a time
There's nowt beats sek music te me.
T' la'al urchin et grunts an' hen gi' a cluck
An' t' hullet still hessen't gan yam
An lambs oot i' garth agen t' plantin' side
Er bleating fer milk frae ther' mam
Thoo can tak aw yer concerts wharivver the' er
Ah sud tire o' them aw varra soon
There's far grander music, just when its leet
Aboot back end o' May er i' June.
Glossary provided for those who aren’t so familiar with Cumbrian dialect.
ivver – ever burds- birds heste-have you
atween – between fower – four throstle - thrush
nowt – nothing sek – such urchin - hedgehog
hullet – owl yam – home plantin - planting (copse)
wharivver - wherever
A Walk through Naddle Woods May 2017
by Janet Wood
One balmy May day a four-year old followed Grandad
Along the shaded path, alive with greens of new growth,
Beech, oak, ferns, vibrant in the dappled light,
The still air steeped with the scent of bluebells.
Alongside jenny wren flitted about the moss-covered stones.
Halting by the little wooden gate they stood looking and listening,
Hazel staff pointing high towards
the rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, drilling of beak on wood,
Then, across the valley, sounded the cuckoo’s call -
A special moment in time to share.
The following poems were written by Peter Dicken
Where are the scents of Spring? 11.04.20
Where are the scents of spring?
The diesel and the exhaust fumes
The cloy of the crowds.
The rumble of rubber on the roads
The squish of migrating toads
On tarmac.
Oh, where are the scents of spring?
Where are the scents of spring?
The air filled with aerosols of
Too much anti-perspirant,
Frying fat and restaurants
Of chip wrappers vying for space on the streets with
Pizza boxes, greasy with oil..
Oh where are the scents of spring?
Where are the scents of spring?
Buried beneath a blanket of box
Overcome by the musk of hawthorn
Drowned in the heady reek of elder.
Oh where, oh where are the scents of spring?
“Easter Monday morning - I walked up the tracks through the fields to a gantry bridge over the M6.
There was very little traffic and for a few brief moments there was no traffic visible at all, in either direction.”
Peter often writes his observations as Haikus.
A Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry with just three lines, 5, 7 and 5 syllables.
Sunday morning, 6am, 19.04.2020
Snow slides slowly from
Sleep-silent fells, bleeds into
Thirsty, browning, land.
Pink and crimson clouds,
Bleed away into cool sky.
Fells blush with dawn sun.
Sunday morning, bread
Bulks and bakes in breathy blooms
Aromatic musk.
30.04.20
1.
Velvet golden fell,
A jerkin over skirts of
Greening in-bye fields.
2.
Pewter fells golden
From probing frozen fingers
Of the rising sun.
3.
Cold clear beck mint beds,
Bright marsh marigolds, May’s witch-bane.
A single bluebell chimes.
Hawthorn Blossom 31.05.20
1.
Heavy froths of May
Weighing down the hawthorn boughs.
Sweet heavy meringues.
2.
Drunk with bridal musk of may,
Her gown a sugar froth creation of
Sweet coy delights.
Concrete Road on a Cold May Morning
13.05 20
1.
Rooks banter, tree-bound.
Curlew, lapwing, moor nested
Warble and plaintive bleat.
2.
Fleeing mossy nest,
Skylark, living shuttlecock,
Rockets from the racket.
Bluebells 18.05.20
Lapis Lazuli
Bluebells in an English wood.
Breathtaking beauty.
Verses for Virus
by Victoria Stevenson
Awash with sunlight and birdsong
Gold headed daffodils trumpet
the spring.
Cats wander the lanes and byways
In search of prey.
We wander our houses, in search
of recreation or sanity.
Out in the world, the virus seeks
And we are the prey....
Cumbria’s rural idyll appears immune.
We have this false sense all is well.
Lambs bounce in the fields, songbirds
herald the spring.
Then our valiant postie
in his red van, appears over the hill.
False Prophets
by Sue Millard
(written March 2008, included in her 2012 pamphlet Ash Tree)
Don’t believe the blackbird.
He’s precocious, starts to sing
false golden trails of promises
of love and nests and hatching
in New Year’s twilight.
Never mind old cock-robin.
North wind or snow, his shout
and his puffed bright chest
are war, not love; “get the hell out,
I’ll keep my garden.”
Don’t trust the bald-faced rook.
Shaking wings, he croaks pretence
of song, but he’s a fraud
with his blueblack iridescence;
postures, but won’t build.
But let the truth-teller sing
his moorish music; haunted flute
blown here on the southern gales.
The sober bird in the tweed suit,
the curlew is spring.
Darkfall CV-19
by Sue Millard
(written March 2020, included in her 2020 pamphlet Galloway Gate)
Dusk drifts smoke-blue from the east.
Sheep nipnipnip at the frosting grass
(eat, eat before night). A distant dog
barks the same rhythm, with no message.
We have met no-one since dawn.
No bikers from the Devil's Bridge,
no walkers queueing for the mountains,
no chatty neighbours bringing eggs,
and for this we are thankful.
Only one con-trail, pink, in the west
draws a line at the end of the day.
The blackbird whistles the trees to bed.
The air is clear of everything but rooks
whose funeral wings wipe the sky clean.
©2019 Shap Community CIO. Registered Charity No 1160966
