I felt it was an insult that each new street was named after a different species of tree they chopped down a lasting dedication to rapid decimation of the ancient woodland and hedgerow their deaths were dealt so swiftly that the hawthorn berries didn’t even get time to bleed.
Now when I walk past Oak Avenue, Ash Drive & Beech Terrace each brimming with life I think of the bricks, mortar and glass I believe the woodland remains just in a different guise and the dedication isn’t an insult but a celebration of what came before that the trees that once thrived there are a solid foundation for new roots to form.
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A cornflower sky littered haphazardly with spluttering wispypearls housing an effortless sun watched over us as we dangled and dropped twigs of beech, ash and elm into the dawdling waters below our knees planted porous on the sandstone bridge absorbing some of it’s history our eyes followed the branches ferrying along the river stroking and slapping against limestone and basalt we were quiet and thoughtful wondering where they’d end up wondering where we’d end up and although sometimes silence can be deafening on that day the silent moments we shared only spoke of our serenity with each other.
velvet sand tickling my back blades of crystal water cutting away doubt driftwood logs silently whispering sea shanties a carefree horizon casually glances feeling content as do I a connection with nature always nurtures.
This is inspired by days spent on Northumbrian beaches, always serene.
early morning with the light muted the sky still a patchwork of slate and coal they set sail favours asked of Pontus & Poseidon hoping they are heard over the wailing gulls and terns they yearn for a return to bountiful days and bulging nets of catching shoals of silver in their pastel gilnetter on the North Sea once brimming with fish glistening just below the surface when the Captain and his Crew were daring wide eyed wanderers braving thunderous waves and caressing calm waters beating their adversaries to the best loot today they’re older grizzled and weather-worn with eyes the colour of their quarry wearing woollen hats and neon overalls they only dare to dream of a fair catch and a fairer price hoping to stay afloat in a sinking industry.
This poem is inspired by the hardworking fishermen who work the North Sea. Once a booming industry in the North East, sadly it has declined over the past 20-30 years.
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