Running the Wolds

BY ALI CARGILL

Getting wet: you’re running in wet grey-dawn,
hands, cheeks
gritted with cold where wetting rain hits.
Warming into rhythm, seeing things close
like wet leaves spread, treebark’s stream.
The dog, tongue out and chasing.
Go with it: scatting like a broom-bashed rat,
field, tracks
edging the woods, chalk-lined steep hill,
in and out of cover smoke air wood smell
and birds holed up under deepswaying green.
The dog, nose to trail and chasing.
Then: two deer cantering, crossing your path.
You stop.
Paused, statuesque, they turn their heads.
They watch you, one a copy of the other
while your breath and theirs mists in just-ending rain.
The dog barks, chases.
The deer are gone.
But on the crest of the hill, the sun breaks red.

The Gates of Fletcher Moss

BY PHIL CASSIDY

Some Seer opened mouth and spoke
from pages of a failing light
held in a chest of dampened wood,
down by the glass edge of a brook:
Etherow, Goyt, Tame confluence.
And there we met, and there we stood,
in Fletcher moss, as it points west,
wriggles to Irlam and canal:
where glaciers of mist moved inward
-into this burlesque, of portents
That mirrored the botanic maze
as central axis of this place,
retelling biblical events
of garden scents, the greens and golds,
but damp, and how my hands were cold.
Do you remember this, the seat?
How our hands met? You folded then
into my touch. The moment froze
and turned into a kiss, a choice.
Those gates were the entrance to this;
The folding up of distances,
of land as it appeared, has shown
as had before by word and voice
-in our longing to be nearer,
in heart, the garden of a home.

Cousin Arnold Wins the Lottery

BY DAVID BUXTON

‘ave I told thee about Cousin Arnold
And the lottery ticket ‘e bought?
‘e were sure that ‘e’d won several million,
But it wasn’t as much as ‘e thought?

We buried old Arnold on Friday –
‘e’d ‘ardly a pound to ‘is name,
But there was a time ‘e were certain
‘e ‘ad won ‘imself undying fame.

When I met ‘im in t’ street that one evening,
‘e were acting just like a young child.
“Come on to the pub, lad”, ‘e shouted,
“I’ll buy thee a pint o’ best mild.”

‘e ordered the drinks with a flourish,
Then said to the bloke who’d poured beer:
“Two packets of crisps, ready salted –
We’ve summat to celebrate here.”

After paying ‘is bill, Cousin Arnold,
With a spring in his step, led the way
To a table for two in the corner,
Where, once seated, ‘e didn’t delay.

“Tonight there’s a big prize in lottery –
A triple rollover they say.
I’ve just seen the numbers on telly –
Bet tha can’t guess who’s won it all, eh?”

‘e beamed at me over ‘is pint pot,
Then gave me a nudge and a wink.
“I ‘ad to tell someone about it –
Sup up, lad, and I’ll get some more drink.”

‘e’d already acquired a new notebook,
And started to make up the lists
Of things ‘e would buy with ‘is millions,
Now ‘e’d joined ranks of capitalists.

‘e began with a simple inquiry
As to what one would do with a yacht.
“I’ve got to find somewhere to park it –
Dost tha’ know of a suitable spot?”

It turned out ‘e hadn’t yet bought it,
But the Rochdale Canal were no good –
‘e were thinking of trying Marbella –
“They say it’s a nice neighbour’ood.”

I pondered this strange proposition
And ‘ad to suppress a slight smile,
‘cause Albert with flat cap and braces
In Marbella would stick out a mile.

“It’s a long way to go to Marbella,
If you want to go out for a sail.”
“That’s no problem at all,” ‘e responded,
“I would call that a minor detail.”

‘e opened ‘is notebook and showed me
The second thing ‘e wished to buy:
A private plane with ‘is own pilot.
I now understood ‘is reply.

“Well, you’re certainly spending your money”,
Was all I could manage to say.
“’ave you got other plans for the balance?
Or will you now call it a day?”

“There’s one or two more things I’ll purchase
To add to my comforts in life,
But one thing for sure I’ll not go for,
There’s no way I’ll get me a wife!”

We laughed and ‘e ordered another –
“The next thing I need is a car.
I’m fed up with driving this Lada,
And I haven’t spent that much so far.”

“I could get me a bright red Ferrari
Like footballers drive nowadays,
Or a silver Rolls Royce or a Bentley –
They’ve a nice line in cabriolets.”

We both smiled in anticipation,
But then I was struck by a thought:
“Such a car’ll get damaged or stolen.”
Cousin Arnold replied with a snort:

“Dost tha think I would stay in my terrace,
Now that I’m upper class and quite posh?

I were thinking of moving to Cheshire,
Where the blokes all drink gin and play squash.”

This picture of Cheshire life threw me –
I don’t think ‘e’d Stockport in mind –
Maybe Prestbury offers such wonders,
Where the folk are genteel and refined?

As I looked at my beaming companion,
I felt I’d a lump in my throat.
Would these Cheshire nobs really accept ‘im,
Despite ‘is big car and ‘is boat?

Or would they look down on this upstart,
Who’d suddenly come into brass?
And would ‘e be ‘urt by rejection,
This bloke who was so lower class?

But Arnold showed no signs of worry,
And seemed to be gathering speed:
“I suppose that I’ll need a new wardrobe –
Should I go for cord trousers or tweed?”

“I’m not the right one to advise you –
I buy most of my stuff at Marks,
Except for the shoes, which more often
Than not I will purchase at Clarks.

“The fashion these days is for labels
Or logos that tell you the make,
But don’t go and buy at the market,
‘cause some of their goods can be fake.”

“I’m not walking round sprouting name tags,”
Said Arnold, now sounding quite cross.
“As for trying to keep up with fashion,
Let’s just say I don’t give a toss.”

It were time to start changing the subject,
So I asked him what numbers ‘e used –
Did ‘e stick to the same combination
To avoid risk of getting confused?

‘e smiled and with great satisfaction
Took an extra long swig from his beer.
“I’ll tell thee how I go about it –
I’ve used the same ones for five year.”

“Number one is the date of my birthday,
The very first day in July.
Then six is the ‘ouse that I live in
In Mafeking Street quite nearby.

“Number nine was the day that my parents
Got married some years back in May.
Seventeen ‘as a very good reason,
But private – I’d rather not say.

“As you know, I’m a big fan o’ cricket,
And though it has sometimes been tight,
Thirty-four was the year Lancs won title –
The last time we won it outright.

“Forty-nine, as tha knows was important –
The year I arrived on the scene.
It’s also the year of the Gold Rush –
An omen, p’raps. Know what I mean?

“Come ‘ome and I’ll show thee on telly –
My numbers are on ITV.
I get such a thrill when I see ’em
Displayed there on page one-two-three.”

So we made our way, laughing and joking
To that terrace in Mafeking Street,
Where we turned on the telly, and Arnold
Went white as proverbial sheet.

The numbers across top of picture
Were nothing like those ‘e ‘ad said.
“Why, the buggers ‘ave changed ’em”, said Arnold
And swore ‘e’d ‘ave somebody’s ‘ead.

“’old on a sec, Arnold”, I stuttered,
“Just look at that line underneath –
I’m sure they’re the numbers you mentioned.”
And Arnold just gritted ‘is teeth.

“What the ‘eck are they playing at, cousin?
When I looked before, mine were on top.
But now they’re moved down under this lot –
It’s against regulations to swap.”

“Oh dear, Arnold,” I said as I realised,
“Those numbers of yours aren’t today’s –
You won the first prize on the Wednesday.”
Poor Arnold just sat in a daze.

It were strange that ‘e showed no excitement,
But managed at last to explain:
“On Wednesdays I don’t buy a ticket –
Dost tha think they might come up again.

The Saturday Night that I took Great Aunt Alice to the wrestling

BY LYN FUNNELL

I took my old Great Auntie Alice
To the wrestling Saturday night.
To tell you truth she invited herself;
She said she enjoys a good fight!

She was always so Christian and proper;
She must be a Jekyll and Hyde.
I’ve never known anyone alter as much
As she did when she got inside!

As soon as the wrestling started
She was hurling abuse at the ref,
And when he didn’t take any notice of her
She shouted out, ‘Oy, are you deaf?’

With an angry roar Thunderguts Watkins
Collided with Killer McGee,
And my Great Auntie Alice sat howling for blood;
I pretended she wasn’t with me!

The two huge gargantuan wrestlers
Performed their spectacular falls,
Then my Great Auntie Alice got up and she yelled,
‘Go on, kick him hard – in the stalls!’

Then she grabbed her long pointed umbrella,
Her eyes filled with sadistic gleams,
And she impaled poor Thunderguts like a kebab,
Who screamed his first genuine screams.

The last time I saw Great Aunt Alice
She was cursing as she disappeared
Up the aisle with two big beefy bouncers as guards
While all of the audience cheered.

I’ve heard Great Aunt Alice’s court case
Comes up Tuesday morning at ten.
I don’t care if she’s guilty or if she’s let off-
I’m not taking her wrestling again!

A View So Fine

BY DAVID WALKER

I have climbed the Munros,
roamed the Glens,
hiked through the Dales,
the Lakes and Fens.

I have explored the Broads,
the Wolds and Wealds
and toured Stately homes
and Battlefields.

I have rambled over
Downs and Moors,
and tramped the paths
which hug our shores.

But there’s one
very special place
where my footsteps slow
and my heartbeats race.

Ahead of me
is a view so fine
I savour it
like vintage wine.

I drink and drink,
can’t get my fill,
for facing me
is Pendle Hill.

Shadow Show

BY ALAN WHITTAKER

Every night, or so it seems,
Childhood images invade my dreams.
Familiar faces from distant days,
Appear in a nostalgic haze.
Playmates, schoolmates, chums I knew,
Assemble in a jostling queue.
Still lithe and young and fair of face,
Untouched by Time’s cruel embrace.
Wraiths, lingering in a vanished age,
Shadowy figures on a shadowy stage.
From the cobwebbed cloisters of
Memory Lane,
They cluster above the counterpane.
Fleeting phantoms of the night,
Who disappear at dawn’s first light,
Leaving a memento of their show,
A damp tearstain on the pillow.

Before Spring Comes

BY SYDNEY PECK

This valley’s empty blueness
Is filling now with clear sunlight.
Snow clumps tumble from branches
Into man-deep drifts soft bright –
Warmth-rounded, but still chilled.

Big snowshoe-footprints harden
Into pools of blue shadow –
Setting off from a house and garden,
Half-hidden, marked only by the low
Recent prints half-filled.

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NorthernLife Mar/Apr 23