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Elizabeth Lloyd Mowll

This  is based on memories of my childhood in the 1940's/50's in the area which has now become engulfed by the urban sprawl of Manchester.

Cheadle Village

Will my grandchildren make dens in grassy meadows?
Will they see a pig wallow, hear the grunts and squeals,
see piglets pushing for milk in the sty?
Will they see a hen dust- bathing in warm soil,
spreading her feathers to the sun
or a cockerel shepherding his hens, calling them to feed?
I hope they will see animals that know daylight and exercise
and understand where their food comes from.
I hope they will walk through a cornfield waist- high,
hear the rustle and whisper, see the waves
and if they are lucky, a glimpse of the soft, silent passing
of a barn owl at dusk.

I try to retrace childhood walks,
revisit Pigs’ Valley, Milkcan Corner and the farm
where we bought turnips for Halloween
and the frozen pools where we skated,
but all that is left is Manchester’s urban sprawl
and the airport’s encroaching runways.
I struggle to cross the fume-laden road at The Griffin;
find a space to park at John Lewis’
among the clipped and manicured shrubs.
From the cafeteria with its panninis, lasagnes and cappuccinos,
I look down on that place
where wind flowers waved around the dewponds,
where horse chestnuts spilled over the fields in profusion
and where I galloped my imaginary horse
along grass verges knee-high in feathery grasses.

Fiona Temple Roche

It Always Rains