Manc

BY JOHANNE LEE

Just another manc on a Monday
Wishing it was still waking up to Sunday
Living it large dancing with our kid
Lifting up the revelry underneath life’s lid
Singing like we know the tune
Of God’s own favourite city
Manchester it rivals everyone in precious words so gritty
We need no rank to be a manc
We’re born here it’s tethered to your blood
There nothing beats us
Are we Understood ?
We rage we dance we sing we live
We carry others we earn to give
I’ve walked these streets a million times
I never tire of their endless rhymes
We got got character undefeated
The coffers of jokes are never depleted
Suck it up southern or anyone south east or west
We’re the heart of the north and yeah we do it best
In pies in lyrics in beer in fruity drink
In bands of brothers of comedy and woe
There nothing ever touches me
Like home is all I know

If Trees Could Talk
BY LUCIA KENNY

If trees could talk, what would they say,
would they tell of lovers who sat beneath their bough,
or of birds who kept them company
while nesting on their branches?
Would they roar at the wind
for breaking their branches,
yet be grateful when they
blow their seeds for regeneration?
Might they thank the warm summer sun
for their shiny green leaves,
and welcome its warmth in winter
when they stand tall and naked?
And in the dry season
would they smile at the rain
encouraging their drops to
enhance their growth and vitality?
Might they complain to the forester
who has stunted their growth,
broken their spirit,
and left their limbs strewn before them?
Would they ask how earth will survive
when man has destroyed their species,
who will create a habitat for wildlife
and cleanse the air?
Perhaps, it may be, after hundreds of years
the old oak will laugh with the child
who hugs its trunk and says, thank you
for being here on our planet after all this time.
If trees could talk, what would they say?

From the Prom

BY JOHN PLATTEN

From distance, a scattered speckled shore
Still, stranded in the Bay, tied to the sand
Spurned by retreating waves, rudderless, resting on keels
Marooned, commerce and pleasure ponder their plight
Summer sales suspended, left high and dry
Spinnakers and lines morse their misery on masts,
that bow to carousing, carefree clouds
Scavenging seagulls swarm, steal and bomb
Stern breezes blow dried grains around beached
hulls, scorched by a saffron sun
Kelps plagued by plastic packets
Yesterday’s sustenance, today’s detritus
tomorrow’s trouble, banked
The day drifts, dreams, and waits
for the tinkering tide to turn

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 tear stain on the pillow.

Cuckoo
BY JOHN PLATTEN

Nesting in a country park,
silence screamed as I strolled
amongst structures, preserved
for posterity, as industry
becomes history.

In the shadow
of the winding gear,
leaves drop like the men
who went underground,
every day for over
a century, to fuel
the North-East,
the country,
the world.

Rounding the corner
of the Pick Sharpeners’
workshop, I’m confronted
by dozens of dandelions
parading in various
life stages. Vivid flowers
to transparent cotton
clocks, ready to spread
their seeds. No grimy
boots, or overflowing
tubs to grind them
into black dust. Life
returns to the yard.

Perched on a bench,
reflecting on Grandad’s
yesterdays, when
orchestras of extraction
played symphonies
of production. Now heritage
revives what politics denied.

At Net Zero
BY ALLAN BOLTON

They ripped out his landline, then removed his boiler,
his car (not electric), his records and CDs (plastic),
his books (needed for pulping — or now banned).

No banks, no cheques, no cash;
no meat, no fish, no dairy,
nothing with sugar.

No pub, no church, no baker,
no library, no theatre.
Shops? Online only, or click-and-collect.
No business can afford to run trains and buses.

Who’s his GP? Is there such a person?
Nearest health centres in another county.
Anyhow, it’s online appointments only.
Don’t bother ringing for an ambulance,
and if there’s an outage, the mobile won’t work.

Power’s off again: renewable sun and wind
taking industrial action. Coal, gas and nuclear long gone.
His home about to be condemned — not energy efficient.

And yet as he shivers and lights a candle,
he has a warm feeling:
though global climate change accelerates ever faster,
this parish has declared it’s At Net Zero.

It won’t be long now; he knows how it will be:
limping across a car park, crushed under a silently reversing EV.

Wayfinder
BY DAISY WATSON SHAW

In all my searching and longing for home
maybe this was what I was seeking all along
a place in which all the sooty stone-lined streets
are as golden in their mystery
as they are inconspicuous, and
guaranteed to lead
to the same familiar spot
where I feel I can be at ease
just like my blanket of barely-there veins
and networks of nerves
all knowingly weave beneath my skin
so I can receive your warmth between our sheets
like the Minster’s chime helps even God himself
find his way back through the maze of
desperate demands and prayers
so he can rest come Sunday morning

School Holidays at 608 Blackpool Road

BY AMI CLEMENT

Dancing in nana’s kitchen
to Shania Twain
begging her to make pancakes
for lunch yet again.

Playing Cinderella
one too many times
and fumbling jigsaws
of nursery rhymes.

Offering yoghurt
straight after tea
and wiping off countryside mud
from our hands and knees.

Exploring hollow trees
in fields of sheep,
a half-term treat of Maccies
on Southport beach.

Grandad dragging us to
garden centres and farm shops,
playing with the water fountains
as nana stands watch

Though I know we could eat these meals
and go on these northern adventures again there’s a part of me now that I’m older
that misses how it all was then.

Are you a budding poet who would like to see your prose in print, then share your work and send your poems to poems@looppublishing.co.uk or go to NorthernLife.co.uk/contribute

NorthernLife July/Aug 23