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A few years ago I used to help the Northwich archaeologists in excavations at Castle, Northwich, under Barry Jones of Manchester University. This poem is a true account of the discovery of the Roman helmet – because I was there when Brian Curzon and Jack found it.
Follow the Signs
A cold Saturday and the light was fading fast;
sparse snow flakes falling on the frosty ground,
drifting gently across the abandoned excavations,
and across the builders’ trenches,
dug yesterday behind the busy street.
Watling Street, no less, that led the legions
downhill to Condate, in the North.
So cold and damp. The fireside beckons,
but wait! Regard the signs!
Our eyes are strained against the gathering dusk,
waterlogged wood and battered metal,
excitement rises in the mind.
‘The archaeologists have gone but, just in case,
Pull it out for a closer look’.
And so the Northwich helmet’s found.
Waiting for 2,000 years; waiting till this winter day.
The gore and glory that was Rome
And in the dark, a ghostly echo rings,
Of clattering hooves and cavalry riding by
On a cold afternoon, long ago,
At the Empire’s far flung edge.
John Lindley
Recognition
Nineteenth century Northwich
and bold lettered above shop front
the words, We are the People.
And we are. We still are.
Without collar stud to insert
and hat to remove - we still are.
We are angel-faced laundry girls
in a class of half-light
and the raw-fisted men
hewing rock salt in mines.
We are the baby in the wagon wheel pram,
the stiff-backed fireman,
the matron and the maid.
We are even the skeletons
of split-timbered houses,
foundations subsiding,
and the jack that helps them rise again.
We are floods and flashes,
cobble and clog,
the solemn features of clay pipe men,
half in shot, half out,
who watch and listen for them.
We are all this and these
more than just in spirit -
we are the blood, skin, bone and marrow
of these glass plate shadows
lit into print, made luminous by nitrate,
crystallised from a town of salt by silver salts.
We are the DNA of a busy day
in 1891 when we were caught,
a near century before we were here,
in images so clear
we'd know ourselves anywhere.
Written for the 'Changing History' exhibition at the Salt Museum, Northwich
Northwich – One of its Kind
When asked my thoughts of Cheshire
many landmarks spring to mind,
yet Northwich is the town
that is one of its kind
Her black and white swing bridges,
a tribute to her rich past
beneath the river Weaver flows
where many a stone have been cast
Summer strolls in Carey Park
or trudging in the rain,
come showers or dazzling sunshine
her beauty remains the same
Picnics on the edge of Marbury Lake
and watching the ducks swim by,
the calm and tranquil waters
glisten and sparkle like the night sky
When asked my thoughts on Northwich
I really can’t deny
it holds many happy memories,
that I hold so very high.
Northwich Remembered is a group poem written by the Introduction to Creative Writing evening class at Sir John Deane’s College, November 2006. They say that their poem ‘is held together with bands of marl and seasoned by the salt of life.’
Northwich Remembered
A Victorian philanthropist, a billow of steam, a seafarer far from the sea.
Soldiers arriving on the station platform, home on leave from the horrors of war.
Air raid sirens wailing; search lights piercing the dark.
The sound of pumps raising ancient seas for chlorine and polythene.
The ICI buzzer as the workmen straddle their bicycles ready for home.
A badly stuffed otter in a pub; the last otter on the Weaver.
Boat lift, swing bridge, salt mines and traffic jams. Roman fort, the Bullring and swans.
Boiled sweets bought from a shop with sinking foundations, an apple from a barrow.
The smell of Sunday roast from the Memorial Hall; a waitress in frills
serving sweet sherry. Roberts’ new bread and the taste of Cheshire onion flan.
Black-and-white half-timbered buildings on a wishbone of river.
Cars queuing at the lights like the steam packets that used to pass through the locks. Sandbags in piles, an urban fox bathing in the sun.
Boat lift, swing bridge, salt mines and traffic jams. Roman fort, the Bullring and swans.
Oars cutting through the water in unison; the flight of the heron as the eight approaches.
A woman walking her manic depressive spaniel, its teeth living on borrowed time.
Night-time lovers on the towpath; the sounds of their naked retreat.
‘Wich’, the name for a town on a brine spring. Sea spurrey growing in Anderton,
Houses on black metal stilts. Children chattering, shops and shopping.
Ship yards, the open market and fire station that was.
Boat lift, swing bridge, salt mines and traffic jams. Roman fort, the Bullring and swans.
Boat lift, swing bridge, salt mines and traffic jams. Roman fort, the Bullring and swans.
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