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Bridget Khursheed
My poem is about the White Nancy, a monument on the hill above Bollington, and its provenance over which there is some uncertainty. The speaker has his own reasons for wanting an explanation.
White Nancy
The Nab’s all yellow slovenly from here.
I like it better, it’s quieter
but nuts to that.
I am looking for a way in.
Nancy’s white skirt, the giant bell
that tops the mill and frights you
on the road from Rainow:
it’s to be parted tonight.
School told us this was where she came
with her sisters
and I imagine some reading material,
lemonade in heavy bottles lugged
by a lad like me, embroidery.
A summer house,
that’s a girls’ shed really. I know history
but where’s the door?
I lie flat on the turf, it’s nice chopped short.
Dogs have all crapped way down
the hill. A gold summer light
should reveal the lines I’m looking for
but all I can spy is graffiti.
And none in my name.
Bollington has more pubs than churches
and these faces are all inside. Beneath me.
An Inscription for a country bench in the Bollington Hills
Past grazing sheep and ceaseless brook; the wheel it constant turns;
Those who trod before us, a daily pittance earned:
These ancient paths they took; through fields to Church and mills;
Their body lived by these waters; their souls are in the hills.
Friend, remember those who trod these ancient paths,
Who by waters and wheels toiled;
Friend. give thanks for this your rest,
And this, your ancient soil.
The Heron
Come the early grey hours and the lightening dawn,
I drift out of bed to look out the wide windows
Across the houses and down the hill
Across to the valley of Bollington.
There he comes across the rooftops now.
With slow lazy undulation
The heron comes with leisurely flap; the hopeful, silent thief gliding soft between houses
Descending low over damp lawns and the still garden pools..
For a moment, being on the hill top, I am higher than he;
I can see his outstretched neck
His wide wing dipping and his white narrow back, his long questing beak;
He thinks he is someone special;
He knows he has the best views and has learnt a trick or two.
Deep in the depths in the unseen quarters,
Does the fish in the suburban pond sense his passing shadow?
Does he feel the hint of his own mortality,
Does he know who watches and waits?
Today, he might think, have some vague awareness;
Is that a shadow he sees that makes him dive down deep?
Today might be the day,
But a neighbour cracks open his garden door and flaps the heron away.
The unknowing fish escapes for another day.
As I was Walking along kerridge ridge,
I Had to climb across a bridge,
There were lots of hills I had to climb,
Climbing higher all the Time,
Even when it started to rain,
The view was Nice all the same,
As time went on and on and on,
The day was very Nearly gone,
I watched the Clouds pass over head,
I started Yawning and was ready for bed.
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