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James Emerson
The Bridestones
Above the Cheshire plains
along the Pennines way
beneath the brides of stone
where the ancients lay
a sentient of spirit
did speak to me and say
Walk not upon my tomb
you follower of light
bow your head for shadows
this summer solstice night
Cast off your clothes of reasons
unshackle shoulders bent
and pray for me my child
in this place lament
For blood and death
have followed
each other here to wed
and lie beneath
these brides of stones
within this rocky bed
Helen Gretton - Congleton
Best Wishes
The solstice nears
I find myself walking
The council-laid pedestrianised highway
Above me the ratepayers' lights
Outshine a solitary star
And the Big Issue vendor closes
Bandito at ten o'clock
CD is missing and I'm a pound down
A four foot Santa rocks menacingly
To the tune of 240 volts
Resplendent in his Coca-Cola coat
Mocking every passer-by
Sacrificial child
Proffered to the traffic gods
Asleep in his Maclaren Techno XLR
Must be another way of crossing Mill Street
It's done
It's over
Bags in the car
The star flickers and goes out
John Lindley
Exploring the Southern Fringes
St. Mary's Church - stopping and starting point,
where stones rise from the earth as Celtic cross,
simple cross, and cherub and angel stand
resolute in the ground's unscrolling wind.
Here indeed is a lych-gate that opens
both ways, tempts us from grey stone to green field,
takes in the grounded fat magpie's bounding,
delirious doves, dizzy with freedom,
children bewitched by comma and brimstone,
careful scaffold of cobweb in hedgerow,
scrambled lattice of rook's nest in beech tree,
confetti of gulls wedded to water,
a smoky vapour of swans on the Mere,
a glimpsed history of sand, glinting through grass
and all of this in the blink of an eye,
in the length of a stride, before we wheel
full circle like that last scrap of buzzard,
distant and dark against the Meccano
of Croker Hill, wheel back to Astbury's church -
its spire needling the bright sky for blessings.
Commissioned by Astbury Mere Trust, Congleton
Received With ThanksOn Congleton Edge where Cromwell's cannon
once had pounded Biddulph hall,
an army's marching boots struck sparks from stone,
memories of Roundhead voices linger;
cursing in crannies and crevices; whispering on the wind.
Anchored in thin soil, stunted trees
lean lopsided where the sharpness of stone
is softened by bilberry and bracken,
and the winter frosts scour the cliff's edge
from which the warriors once watched.
Below the cliff, the Cheshire plain
sprawls west to the Welsh hills,
and Jodrell's distant dish
trawls the sky, watching and listening;
netting the sound of the stars.
The chapel is built tight against the road's edge,
grey stone harsh against a high blue sky.
And in the graveyard, where farmers and yeomen
masons and milkmaids, sleep with soldiers,
the monument's short list of names is the receipt for the price of peace.
20th September 2006 |
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