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Alan Gerrard
Frodsham Hills
On breezy days in early spring,
When woodland birds are on the wing,
Perchance you’ll here the blackbird sing
Whilst walking on the hill.
To ease the worries, raise a smile,
I often wander there a while,
An easy pace, a gentle mile,
On peaceful Frodsham Hill.
And on still summer mornings there,
The cuckoo calls without a care,
And scents of oak woods fill the air,
On lovely Frodsham Hill.
The distant peaks of Clwyd rise,
Far north the marsh and Mersey lies,
Vast vistas set ‘neath northern skies,
From scenic Frodsham Hill.
Burnished bracken, changing year,
Time of harvest drawing near,
Soon the redstart will appear,
On wooded Frodsham Hill.
On misty, mellow autumn days,
With drifts on leaves on sandstone ways,
And waning warmth from clear suns rays,
Let’s walk on Frodsham Hill.
The trees stand stark with branches bare,
And frosty breath on frosty air,
The fox slinks homeward to his lair,
On wintry Frodsham Hill.
But the robin sings on merrily,
In the crimson berried Holly tree,
And snow is wonderful to see,
In chilly Frodsham Hill.
Woodhouse Hill to Dunsdale deep,
Jacobs Ladder, short but steep,
Across the golf course carefully creep,
And home in time for tea.
Crow Wood Farm (Kingsley)
Mister John Allen has a nice farm
Named Crow Wood Farm
In Kingsley, the heart of Cheshire
Where happy hens laid savoury eggs
Every week, north westerners
Come to the market
To buy the fresh and golden eggs
Laid by the chickens of Mr Allen
John Allen is a jovial man
With a nice sense of humour
He knows well all his customers
And speaks with them eagerly
Winsford, Northwich, Nantwich
All ancient salt towns
Where on the day of the market
Everyone buy the fresh eggs
Of Crow Wood Farm
Laid in the heart of Cheshire
Where the hens are free to run
And live a nice life in the Cheshire sun
Frodsham Memorial Climb
Hewn haphazardly
Into the jagged sandstone,
The staggered path twisted and meandered,
Clawing its way through
Tangled branches, bramble and nettles,
Their life force expectant with energy,
The Spring sun's rays, laser sharp,
Warming the gentle breeze
And encouraging the birthing buds.
In places it was vertigo steep -
Tight shut fear - no peering down!
Ankle-spraining, well worn, sienna hue
And sudden, sloping, slippery steps.
Cloudless, cobalt sky
Silhouetting the delicate, cobweb tracery
And beyond, far in the distance,
The chemically polluting, impure presence
Of undesirable industry.
Invasive, unwelcome monster,
Tentacle sprawling ever wider,
Foul breathed and suffocating.
Peering between foetal foliage
And intertwining twigs,
Finally - the MEMORIAL -
Tall, elegant sand-stone needle
Piercing the sky.
Admirable homage to young men
Who, blindly, but with hope and pride
Fought to their tear tragic,
Terror tormented destiny.
Eternal thanks arouse our dormant thoughts
And justifiably invade our guilty existence.
Over here from the States and missing my family and friends, and the pond at the bottom of my garden (sort of - we live in the woods), I have been feeling quite adrift in the known but unknown waters of England & Frodsham. Nature always helps to ground me, hence the walks.
Frodsham’s rivers
For all their surface serenity,
underneath,
ducks are paddling like billy-o.
Me too.
So, each evening, seeking to root myself like the river edge rushes,
(water being my earth, wherever I am)
I take a walk by the Weaver.
In March the river is murk brown, and bitter with hail.
The mallards are touched with mating madness.
I root for one poor woman, You go girl!
as she rises above two males
who are railing at her
in their fight for the right to paternity.
In April the river is birds' egg blue, and palely sunlit.
And things are calmer now.
Duck pairs squat, not touching, on the banks.
Threesomes drift downstream, peaceably.
A single drake, an emerald-crowned king,
perches on an eminence of rock beneath the bridge.
And above the river, and the birds, and me,
a stream of vehicles and their people
rushes into Frodsham.
Frodsham Marshes at Sunset
There's a current whipping up;
Birds surfing to and fro
Where salmon once flew upstream.
And I whirl around this surge
Feeling the land's gentle ascension
As silken rays blush the constancy,
Egging on the lazy drains
To river - to SHELL - to shells, to sea
And home again.
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