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John Lindley

St Luke's, Goostrey

In here, in glass, in accordance with Luke,
Christ dies on one wall and rises on another
and though the font is not watertight, faith is.

It is found through lych gate, trees and markers
via the passover of slabs. Under one –
John and Mary Bleafe of the Leighs,

and a grandson whose Christian name and dying
has plated away in the rain, whose last name
marks a transition of tongue that rebirths him as Blease.

There is little to read or wash away
on the stone of Mary and Henry,
but we hear their whispered welcome all the same

and once inside, a crosshatched shadow
from the leaded window cobwebs the panels
and plays upon the organ pipes

and the light comes through the silvered shred
of a soldier's spear as surely as that spear
went through a Saviour's side.

By one, in the season when the sun is at its highest,
the Church's horned shadow falls on 1877,
falls on 16 year old Ellen Jane Petty

as William Armistead's shadow must have done too
as he prayed for her Heaven
and baptised her with earth.

There's more here than memory though,
than baptism and betrothal,
than record, ritual and symbol;

more than tagged lives begun in water
and finished in soil or ash.
Listen to the shredded peal of bells

through the branches of a pared back yew
and hear of hope that rises higher than a tower captain,
of faith that goes deeper than pine.

Written for the 'Walking into the Future' performance as part of a week long residency in Goostrey for The Rural Touring Network

Elizabeth Lloyd Mowll

This poem resulted from a writers' workshop day spent at the home of Alan Garner. Here the past has been preserved and celebrated in a wonderful way in the Medicine House. It contrasted strangely with all the obvious signs of technical advancement that could be seen nearby.

The Medicine House, Goostrey. March, 2006

It has been a long winter.
Snowdrops are fading in the orchard.
Frost-bleached grasses still stubble the field
and robins and larks welcome the sun
which dances amongst a bluster of cloud.

This house is still standing,
a testimony, rising from the field;
its mysteries carved in rock, wood, clay,
in thunder-stones and witches’ marks,
in bone, bead and brick.

Flies, emerging from the woodwork,
drawn out by the new-born sun
clamour on the glass awaiting release.
It has been a long winter
but this house is still standing.

The fire in the hearth still burns,
its wood-scented incense warming the heart.
The well still bubbles life from its source,
cleansing, quenching, refreshing;
and along the labyrinthine path of days
we are still walking our own particular path,
eyes raised to the Source of our being
and of our healing.

Deer-filled forests are now behind us.
The surreal moon- face of Jodrell Bank
rises up over the stubble, listening.
Rail tracks and vapour trails
cross our ever-extending horizons.
We are further along the path,
yet this house is still standing,
a testimony, rising from the field.

Harry Owen

Blackden