February poems
Contrasts on the verge of spring
Just a short post today! Last weekend saw hints of spring sunshine on the Saturday, compared to gloomy skies, wind and rain on the Sunday. However, the nature writing workshop and walk along the Sheffield and Tinsley canal last Sunday morning went really well, with the rain not really starting until we were cosily writing in the Rag ‘n’ Bone cafe near Meadowhall. Here are a few of my reflections and photos from both days.
The ending of the second poem is about the end of Sunday’s walk and our view from the cafe. As we walked along Weedon Street from the canal, it became apparent that the unofficial savannah-like brown-field grasslands around the cafe have been turned into a giant Forgemasters building site.
The cafe owner confirmed that it’s a massive project for the Ministry of Defence, and it’s going to be the site of the UK’s biggest steelworks, making components for Nuclear Submarines as well as unspecified military machinery. It led to a rather gloomy end to the walk as I remember politician Joe Ashton telling me about growing up in poverty in the 1930s depression in Attercliffe, until boomtime started when the UK started making and stockpiling weapons and armaments, long before World War Two started. Scary thoughts…
First, something much more cheerful:
At the edge of the Langsett Estate
Crocuses, sprung from the earth overnight,
Bursts of yellow at the bus stop,
A purple carpet on the slope above the tram tracks.
Rain, warmer air and today’s sunshine
Have coaxed them to raise their heads,
Opening their blooms between the trees,
Along the paths. Pensioners, trailing shopping trolleys
Point and smile, pure joy etched on their faces.
A child bends down and peers in wonder
At the magic of life and colour returning.
I want to thank that gardener, long ago,
Who wanted this mundane place to know beauty.
Amongst the ruins
They are not the only skeletons,
Prancing comically by the water’s edge,
A jokey display for towpath wanderers.
Rotting window sills and crumbling brickwork
Are skeletons too, as we glide through the past.
The rusting mills reflected in rippling canal water
Feral geese: one Chinese with knobbled head,
One snowy white, paddling furiously together.
Curious friends or lovers, floating in layers of time
From ancient bedrock, graffiti-tagged dressed stone,
Corroded corrugated iron, birch grown from cracks.
Catkins and razor wire, whitethorn blossom and litter,
A family of magpies, the first brave hawthorn leaves,
Patches of tranquil warmth as the storm approaches.
A new industry of death is reborn on Weedon Street
Where a brownfield prairie grew last year,
Precision-engineered terror amongst the ruins.
