Gedling

1899

Beneath the earth of Nottingham
Lies our future, to be claimed,
The hole is sunk, the men are drawn
towards a dark and deadly flame

1915

Nine men fall down the hungry shaft
and come back up without their breath
just nine more on the tally chart
of all the men who met their death

In Gedling's pit, where thousands worked
the rich, deep sedimentary seam
from all the world the miners came -
Jamaican beach to Sherwood's dream

1991

The Pit of Nations is no more.
Struck down; an easy callous swipe
of the blue-edged capital sword,
ignoring what remained behind.

Was it worth it? Those six years?
Working on while others starved?
The end was coming sure enough
when unity was rent in half

Ninety years and more of toil
torn to a pile of dust and scrap
leaving a silent open grave
mighty holes filled in and capped

2018 

The pounding of 700 feet
on the crushed and stony tracks
give birth to yet another year
as the distant, lonely sun 
washes gently on our backs

We climb the hills, embrace the dips
accept the cold upon our face
we pass the embryonic homes
as an uncertain future looms
behind our gathering pace

(c) Tim Fellows 2018


Gedling Colliery, which was the life-blood of Gedling and many of the surrounding villages, opened in 1899 and was closed in 1991. 128 men died at the colliery, which produced over a million tonnes of coal per year in the 1960s^. It developed a reputation as the "pit of all nations" because of the diversity of foreign miners who worked there: in the 1960s, ten per cent of the colliery's workforce of 1,400 were originally from the Caribbean.
The site was opened as Gedling Country Park on 28 March 2015 and is the location of Gedling parkrun. 

Facts courtesy of Wikipedia.

Forge

I wrote this sonnet for my daughter Lydia's wedding.

Forge

The love of youth is like a burning flame
which, if unleashed into a blacksmith's forge,
could make cold iron with white hot purpose gleam;
no cold wind nor harsh words its heat assuage.

The love which wraps itself in common bonds
of friendship, care - unwavering in time -
grows stronger still when vernal longing ends
and glows with inner strength and joy sublime

But if each heart wants only what it wants
and cares but for its own needs and desires
then love will slowly cool as lust departs
extinguishing those faint remembered fires

When love is new its flames blaze readily
But tender care will forge sweet unity

Tim Fellows 2018

Love and Innocence (For Edward)

This poem is another sestina (see Butterfly House), an obsessive form where the last word of the lines in each 6 line stanza repeat at the end of lines in the next 5 stanzas, except they are in a different place. Then there is a 3 line envoi, which contains the 6 words again.

This is for my grandson Edward, born in January 2018.

Love and Innocence

We begin our journey in life
with boundless wonder in our eyes -
The world is huge when we are young
as we are very rudely born
in flurries of natural love
our lives begin with innocence.

But hidden by our innocence
the darkest fact of earthly life
we only know of care and love
we see compassion in their eyes
the fear of death is not yet born
when we are small, when we are young.

What would we give to stay so young
before we lost our innocence
before our doubts and dread were born?
To live the infant's carefree life
when we saw with cloudless eyes
unconditional, boundless love.

But what of adolescent love?
Its arrows pierce our hearts when young.
To be enraptured by their eyes
and yearn for loss of innocence
to lose your track of daily life
as all-consuming love is born.

In Cupid's arms we then are born,
transported on a tide of love
bright light illuminates our life.
It makes us feel so very young
without our former innocence
when love shines from their starlit eyes.

As the light fades from our eyes
they say another soul is born
in a child-like state of innocence,
an everlasting world of love
where once again we can be young
in the realm of infinite life.

When in our eyes lives only love,
born fresh in hope when we were young,
we pass in innocence through life.

Tim Fellows 2018

Butterfly House (for David)

This poem is in the form of a sestina, an obsessive form where the last word of the lines in each 6 line stanza repeat at the end of lines in the next 5 stanzas, except they are in a different place. Then there is a 3 line envoi, which contains the 6 words again.

This is for my grandson David, who loves the Butterfly House at North Anston.

Butterfly House

We watch the flitting blue-winged butterfly
inside the steamy, fecund, glass-walled house
the lazy Cayman and emerald snake
while in his cage the wise and silent owl
watches all the quick, excited children -
What's behind those yellow eyes, we wonder?

The boy, whose bright eyes light up with wonder
points out and reaches for the butterfly
that flutters and spins the heads of children
to probe all nooks and crannies of its house.
Meantime, old Thor – the screeching eagle owl
thinks hard about the green-scaled snake.

The wary children stroke the tiny snake
will they be too scared? We sit and wonder
if they'll prefer to pet the tiny owl
or return to observe the butterfly
who is safely trapped in its humid house
unlike the minds of questioning children

When his slick tongue tastes the tiny children
does the thick bodied, coiled constrictor snake
want to entrap them in his glassy house
and grip and tighten? We can but wonder
as the spotted, transparent butterfly
tries to mimic the graceful, swooping owl

He dreams of his far forest, Thor the Owl
His name is known by all the children
He's not an anonymous butterfly
or deadly like the black-white arrowed snake
although a frightened rabbit would wonder
as it hid in its dark and burrowed house

At last we will leave the Butterfly House
past the cage of the Turkmen Eagle Owl
the place of such beauty, awe and wonder
that so fascinates the smiling children
wave goodbye to the flickery-tongued snake
and, for the final time, the butterfly

Safe in moonlit house the sleeping children
dream of Thor the Owl and slithery snake
and fly in wonder like the butterfly

Tim Fellows 2018