The Leather Pouch

Written at one of Ian Parks' Peace workshops

The Leather Pouch

Six weeks had passed
since that knock,
the half-expected shock
that fades to cold compliance.
Then
              she found it

His leather pouch, with some money in.
Coins, tiny pebbles of silver and bronze,
that took her to the place
where his blood soaked into the ground.
Reaching into its depths
she feels its velvet touch.
She closes her eyes and wonders,
in elongated moments,
what he saw.
The chaos and death,
the wheeling birds
cutting through emotionless clouds
laden with snow for winter's dawn.

The skies opened
the rays of maternal, eternal love
shine through the tears
and she feels the first soft touch of peace.

Tim Fellows 2018


Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Flocking

Flocking

The leader makes its move.
In a swirl of space,
like dust in the first
gusts of a storm
they take flight.

Nature's pure choreography,
each tiny course correction
ripples, repeated countless times.

The beauty of shape and movement,
a ritual dance recurring
again and again, season on season,
year upon year. 

To the warmth and back,
with nothing but instinct,
they treat us to their show.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

The Lark Has Flown

Like to the lark at break of day arising
from sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate - William Shakespeare, Sonnet 29

The Lark Has Flown

The flowers in earthy beds were gently swaying
Near where the lark had built her perfect nest
The ground absorbs the sound of children playing;
the breeze blows soft, the fragrant scents caress 

The lark flies high, she swoops and sweetly sings
Around and through the blossom laden trees
her call the catalyst that fuels and brings
the tiny creatures; lures the eager bees

But time flows cruel; its purpose to deny
sweet moments only it can take away
The sullen earth will turn; the skies will cry
and darkness will return to claim the day

The garden wakes when dawn's first seeds are sown
All seems unchanged except the lark has flown

Tim Fellows 2019

The Pigeon

Written on Cabo Roig beach, September 2019

The Pigeon

It was in the days after the storms
when we returned to the beaches
where animals and fish had washed up,
reeking of death and destruction.

No sign now, swimmers do handstands
in the warm salty water, waves break
gently, no longer crashing and ripping
the cliff paths and washing over
shoreline roads that lie warped like
plastic in the hot sun.

Blues music carries
well in the light breeze, children
dig in the sand and ex-pat beer-bellies
glow red or turn to teak.
Tapas, beer and cocktails
soothe the needs of the snaking queue.

The Africans lope gently between
chairs and towels, Elvis shades
and colourful beach mats over their shoulders.
The deaf woman leaves small
ceramic turtles, 2 Euros if you want.
She mostly retrieves them unsold.

A pigeon, ruby-eyed,
steps its way between the bodies;
purple necked, shimmering.
Its head jerks and pecks at the crumbs
offered at the sandy table. It is tolerated
as long as it doesn't encroach,
as long as it doesn't become
a problem.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Greenhouse

This memory was revived by entering a greenhouse at Dobbie's Garden Centre, where they were using some tomato plants to help sell it. The smell was very vivid.

Greenhouse

It's the smell that lingers
longest in the memory.
Opening the sliding bolt
to a deep, rich, earth scent
of Solanum lycopersicum
stealing through the creaking door.
The visceral urge to pluck the shiny
fruit from its slender stem.
To rip through the outer layer
and let the juice flow. Consume
it all; seeds, flesh and skin.
Just to smell the richness
of the fruit, close-up,
the mustiness of leaves, vine, soil
was reward enough.
It had been a long wait, from the first
tiny fruits, through green to ripe red.

Scattered around the jungle of plants;
pruning shears, a small trowel,
a larger trowel, screws and nails,
nuts and bolts, a metal watering can.
An old cracked pane of glass
propped against the guinea pig cage.
The pair of scrabbling creatures,
protected from the northern
chill in colder months,
chirping approval as I feed them.

One day, as I stopped to say hello
on the way to school
I found one lying, unmoving,
eyes glazed.

Grandad added his tobacco smell
to the mix; leaning over
to confirm that it was dead.
He told me not to worry and to go to school.
When I came back, it was gone.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Irini Adler from Pixabay

Father's Day

A poem for National Poetry Day based on a true story. After my mum died we found this self portrait of my dad when he was 42. 

Self portrait J Fellows 1978

Father's Day

I saw you, as I walked past
the shop on that wet Sunday.
The slight hunch of the shoulders,
the balding head, the walk.

But it couldn't be you
because it's been fourteen
years since you left us.
Unable to fight any more.

I had to stop and smile
for on closer inspection
I realised it was just
another duplicitous reflection.

Tim Fellows 2019

Verde

This poem was drafted at a Poetry Business workshop and is based on a real incident on the green dry river bed between Cabo Roig and Cala Capitan beach.

Verde

The verde is refreshed today

drenched by last night's thunderclouds.

The earth has quenched its thirst

dry enough for sandaled feet

to raise dust from a path

scattered with slivers of shattered glass.

I look to a sky

that redefines the colour blue,

carrying a small plane

whose engine harmonises

with the relentless insects

hiding in the trees.

As I look down a gecko stops,

stock still. I stop too

and we both wait for the other to blink.

I look away and glimpse the sea.

When I look back, he is gone. 

Tim Fellows 2019

I Fell at Towton

The Battle of Towton took place during the Wars of the Roses in the spring of 1461. There was heavy snow. It was long and brutal, possibly the bloodiest battle to be fought on English soil.

I Fell At Towton

Red flesh, vivid on splintered bone
where blood flows in angry 
torrent my unseen foe emerges 
through the thickening snow 
that dulls the sound of screams and roars;
mace aloft to strike a cruel blow. 

His eyes a blaze of fear and hate;
his breath in plume
as in a scything, swirling blur 
of arms he aims 

to crush my head, it glances 
from my helmet as I swerve 
but slip and fall where mud 
and gore have mixed with ice 
slick from the snowy squall. 

On the ground I lie and to my right 
a comrade lies, a trace of tears 
frozen on his empty eyes
that stare as once they stared in birth, 
and now must gaze on death. 

A blade is lifted to the sky
and as I await its fatal bite 
I see the snow is settling now 
covering bodies with a shroud of white 
and I can only think that how 
the rose I served must win 
or why else did I fight?

Tim Fellows 2019

Orihuela Market

Written after a visit in the winter of 2019.

Orihuela market

Out

The camels smile their lugubrious smile,

kneel-lying on the cobbled street

as one of the herd clambers to its feet,

to carry the excited child.

The boy, a swirl of bravado and fear

rises and jerks towards the sky.

His sister clings, with no pretence,

between the humps and squeals and cries.

Exotic scents drift through the crowd

out from the stalls, a Moorish feel,

the dancer's hips make snake-like lines

to the pipe's mesmeric reel.

Meats, skewered and layered, drip fat

scents of spice drift in our wake

Full legs of ham, great wheels of cheese

and tempting us, huge slabs of cake.

Back

Candy floss and toffee apples

hints of Britain

in the winter sunshine

banished by churros

dipped in chocolate.

An array of trinkets made from

the bones of animals

No hay maltrato animal

the sign informs

Under the mighty wall of rock

the church's bells hang in loaded silence.

A man who resembles

our image of Jesus

silently passes by its door

The sun is cooling now
and the crowds drift home.
The camel chews and dreams
of deserts.

Tim Fellows 2019

Bunfungle

I wrote this for a children's poetry competition. It didn't get very far but another one I already had that I just threw in as an extra entry got on the long list. Just shows that you are not the best judge of what judges think of your work!



Bunfungle

My best friend's called Bunfungle

he lives beneath my bed.

He's got quite a tiny body

but a big and furry head.

He wakes me in the morning

by tickling my right ear.

He sings a happy morning song

'til my yawns all disappear.

He likes to share my breakfast,

he eats some of my toast.

Marmalade's the topping

that he enjoys the most.

He's in the pocket of my coat

when mum takes me to school

and hides inside the locker

at the swimming pool.

'Cos no-one sees Bunfungle,

he'd scare and he'd surprise!

Frighten them with his giant teeth

and his googly yellow eyes.

Bunfungle's better than a dog

he's more fun than a cat.

I like it when he dances

and wears a funny hat.

Bunfungle always keeps me safe

when I go to bed at night.

He scares off all the monsters

and tucks me in all tight.

I know one day Bunfungle

will have to go away,

when I get big like Daddy

he won't come out to play.

He'll still be in my pocket

he'll follow everywhere

I won't see him anymore

but I'll always know he's there.

Tim Fellows 2019

Pride

Written in Copenhagen in August 2019

Pride

The old city is grey today,
dampened by summer rain.
The bells chime the hours
and a flurry of cyclists
sprays passers-by from puddles.

Flags fly with pride, in shops,
on buildings and buses.
The wind whips them into life,
the ubiquitous red and white
and the rainbow.

Music pounds as the crowds
gather in celebration.
All colours are welcome. The rain
cannot dampen the joy.

What are a few drops of water
compared to years of humiliation,
beatings, death threats,
secrets and lies?

Tim Fellows 2019

Snippets

Inspired by a tour guide in Bucharest and a colour from a paint palette

Peasant Bread

The people's palace
built by monsters
with no expense spared
for their opulent legacy.
The marble floors,
the chandeliers,
nothing but the best.
Paid for in full
by baby's milk
and stolen peasant bread.


During the COVID-19 pandemic


Isolation Haiku

The frog is awake
He sees the shallow sunrise
and breaks the silence

Blackbird on the lawn
Unaware of our lockdown
Sings in the clean air

Eyes dart back and forth
There is a predator loose
that we cannot see

Just before the 2019 election...

Tug Of War

Lean back, lean back, grip and pull
Each side with the strength of numbers
Well matched, convinced that they are better
Digging in with no surrender
On it goes, on and on
The handkerchief inching back and forth
Barely shifting for all that effort
As bystanders watch, they just get bored
Or laugh at the sweaty, straining faces
Perhaps one side will win
Gloating over broken losers
Or instead they could all collapse
A fruitless waste of grim endeavours. 

Just after the 2019 election...

The Masque of Apathy with apologies to PBS

Lie like pussycats after slumber
In easily vanquishable number
Tie your own chains round and through
The manacles that were put on you
By the lying, boastful, arrogant few.

Summer 2019...

September Haiku

It's that time of year
when smart new school uniforms
swamp my facebook feed

Summer 2019...



Nero


At least when Nero
picked up his bow and played
it was only Rome
that was burning.


Spanish Poem

I'm getting angrier and angrier
Because we've run out of
Sangria

Airport 9am

Another day, another airport.
They're on the beer at 9am.
"We're on holiday!" they say,
"Get another gin for mam."

Promises

Boris's promises
are not worth
the paper
they aren't written on.


Not Again, America


How many more of
your sons and daughters will die
in a hail of lead

before you decide
that chlldren's lives matter more
than your precious guns

Spring 2019...

Closing Time Haiku

Get one more in, Joe!
Just in time before the bell
Seventh foaming pint

Ding, ding - tolls the bell
Clinking glass on polished bar
Time gentlemen please!

Spilling through the door
Its chucking out time again
Neighbours bear the brunt

Winter 2018-2019...

Icy Cycling

Icy cyclist eyes an icicle
Cycles icily, eyes the ice
Ice is cyclically icy I see
Cyclist's eye sees ice is icy.
I see a cyclist cycling icily
Icy cyclist circles his ice
See, ice sickles the cyclist!
Silly cyclist ass over eye.

on Ian Parks reaching 60

Ian

Born into rain-drenched, grime-etched Yorkshire streets,
where expectations ended down the pit,
a boy, whose mind marched to a different beat -
his path by words of love, not lamp, were lit.


Tim Fellows 2019 - 2020

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Forþfæderas

I wrote this as part of our Read To Write study of Beowulf.

It's an Anglo-Saxon form but in modern English - the break in the middle
of the line is marked with the vertical line. The key elements of Anglo-Saxon poetry
are alliteration and, common in the language itself, compound words.

The Anglo-Saxon culture came from the Vikings, where bravery in battle was seen as
honourable and poetry was used to tell tales around bravery of forefathers, which is
what the title of the poem means. The þ is a "th" sound.

For comparison, here are some lines from Beowulf:

Gewát ðá néosian | syþðan niht becóm
héän húses | hú hit Hring-Dene
æfter béorþege | gebún hæfdon
fand þá ðaér inne | æþelinga gedriht
swefan æfter symble | sorge ne cúðon
wonsceaft wera | wiht unhaélo
grim ond graédig | gearo sóna wæs
réoc ond réþe | ond on ræste genam
þrítig þegna | þanon eft gewát
húðe hrémig | tó hám faran
mid þaére wælfylle | wíca néosan

I performed it at the National Coal Mining Museum in June 2019. I thought that my forefathers deserved commemorating as the Vikings would have. 

Forþfæderas

In olden days | those darkest times
Forefathers came | from many lands
wend from the West | where work was failing
breaking bridges | to bide in brick-homes
lads of land-craft | who learned the new ways
cutting coal | by candle-flicker
soon to settle | as strangers to
their northern neighbours | nights and days
of weary working | wives at home
as men are mining | their muscles pound
and sweat is sliding | sinews creaking
in the dust-dirt of | the Devil's homestead.

Where lamps are lit | and leather strapping
wraps the warriors | who wield their axes
hack and hew | and heed no fear
despite the danger | in the darkness
gas and groaning | of great wood-cages
black-rock bearing | in brutish nightmare
roof-rock falling | red blood flowing
a widow is walking | while in death-tears
black in binding | bitter her burden
comrades carry | the coffin onward
and lower her lover | his life-force rising
to heaven's heartland  | helmet shining.

Dust to dust | in Derby's county
songs of sorrow | sung in honour
of men who marched | in merciless worm-tracks
in throes of thunder | thirst and hardship
their form is fading | fast to past-times
the lives they led | in legendary yore-days
recalled in reverence | rightly cherished
our kith and kin | our kings and queens
blood that binds us | bound forever.

Tim Fellows 2019


Image by Arthur_ASCII from Pixabay

Birth

In February I visited the Pima County Air Museum in Tucson, Arizona. One of many splendidly preserved aircraft was a B-29 bomber, Sentimental Journey, like the one in the image below.

The atomic bomb known as Fat Man exploded over Nagasaki on the 9th August 1945 at 11:02 a.m. at an approximate altitude of 1,800 feet. Less than a second after the detonation, the north of the city was destroyed and 35,000 people were killed. It was delivered by the B-29 bomber Bockscar.

Birth

In the cavernous hangar
the silver beast is silent.
Its belly gapes
and I imagine
Fat Man hanging inside,
primed and bloated
with a deadly load.

The belly is opened and
the beast gives birth,
a bastard child falling,
screaming its first breath
with the light of a thousand suns.
Blistering meagre cloud.
Nagasaki opens her arms
and takes it into her soul.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by guralski from Pixabay

Where Pocahontas Died

The town of Pocahontas in Alberta, Canada, existed briefly for miners to extract coal for the First World War.

Where Pocahontas Died

A wapiti, heavy with calf, is grazing
near the place they called Pocahontas.
Where they came to plunder the treasure
beneath the ground, tracking north through forest
on bear-trails.

The great mountains,
grey faces covered by shrouding cloud
and topped with white,
roared their anger as their hoard
was pillaged. They sent fierce winds and snow
that lay in thick slabs. Tendrils of ice
like frozen tears began to trickle
and formed gushing rivers.

The air and forest blazed with fire
but the precious lode was scoured
until that day when all was empty;
the earth and the ghost shacks, the bones
of another age.

The cow-elk turns mournfully to me, its eyes
dark and wet, then back to gaze upon the place
where Pocahontas died.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

The 18 to Euston

The 18 to Euston

A true story...

Stop-start through the London night, winding towards Euston station
I sit, on the bottom deck, observing my fellow travellers.
There are many languages, Portuguese, I think and one side
of a phone conversation in an African language peppered with bits of English.
Hindi too, probably, and something from Eastern Europe.

Across the aisle is a man - thick set, silent, unsmiling - somewhere Asian? Not sure.
The bus stops and a man gets on, carrying a plastic bag. He sits opposite me.
He has a magnificent moustache. He takes out a small comb and grooms it. He smiles.
A broad smile - his eyes twinkle and his moustache bristles like a small bush in the breeze.

The Asian man sees the moustache and smiles back. "This is a great moustache", he says.
"Ha, ha", says Moustache Man, "Yes, sometimes people ask if they can touch it!"
I don't think I will ask that, but I feel that the Asian man might. He doesn't.

"I am from Mongolia!", he says. "Oh!", I think, "Yes, it's obvious now" - even though I've never
met anyone from Mongolia I have seen documentaries.
I wonder if Moustache Man will reveal his nationality. He does. "I am from Sudan", he says. His accent is difficult to follow from behind the facial forest and I think The Mongolian has
failed to pick this up. He doesn't seem to care and says "This moustache - very good!".

Then, from nowhere, he beats his chest with one fist - "Mongolian, strong!"
He laughs, Moustache Man laughs, I laugh.
"We are all happy!", says Moustache Man. "Yes, happy,
this is good!" says the Mongolian.

We discuss the climate and geography of Mongolia.
I tell them I am English and the Sudanese man asks me if I am from Newcastle.
I say no, but it seemed a bit random. I certainly don't think I sound like Jimmy Nail.
At 10pm it is 29C outside the air conditioned comfort of the bus.
Moustache Man points outside and says - "This is winter in Sudan!". We all laugh again.

"I live here now," says the Mongolian, "and sometimes go back.
I am happy." "I am happy", says Sudan Man, "I have been here 27 years".
I think he says 27 but the moustache has freed itself
from its earlier combing and is now interfering with his audibility.

"Why you have no beard!" says The Mongolian. "You could have
a fine big beard!". "No", says Sudan Man, "that is like the people
who make bombs. I don't like them and I am Muslim."

We nod awkwardly at this serious turn of events and Sudan Man realises he needs
a course correction and asks the Mongolian why he has no moustache.
Actually he points at him and at the mighty tache and says "You, moustache?"
The Mongolian shakes his head and indicates with his hand a pathetic straggly
moustache and beard would result.

The Mongolian indicates that it is his stop and gets up - he shakes our hands.
"This was good!"
We agree. It was good. He leaves at Paddington Green.

Sudan Man turns to me - "I love football. Who is your team?"
I try to explain Chesterfield FC to him but they are beyond explanation.
"My team," he says, and I expect Chelsea or Arsenal or Spurs, "is Newcastle
United!". Ah, that explains his earlier question. He has never been there,
but he has always liked Kevin Keegan. Actually, Keegan's perm
and the 'tache are of similar magnitude.

"1996" he says, "we should have won! But that Manchester United, they don't let us!!"
"What about Alan Shearer?" I ask. "Yes!" he shouts and mimics Shearers goal celebration.
He too realises he has to get off - "Goodbye friend!" he says. "Goodbye", I say and he
and his moustache disappear into the night.

I sit there in the last few minutes of my journey with my faith in humanity restored
by a proud Mongolian and a Sudanese with ferocious facial hair.

I would love it if all conversations between different nationalities were like this. And I hope,
if Kevin Keegan were here, he would love it too.

Tim Fellows August 2018, London, England, Europe, The World...

Image by Steve Watts from Pixabay

A Friend Calls

A Friend Calls

For Matthew

I

Where was I, when you called?

It's hard to forget that sunny

windswept Birmingham field.

The news, you informed me,

was not good.

My brain reminded me, as you spoke,

that you too had played rugby

and rowed to a good standard

for your college.

I'd forgotten which one,

because you were saying

two years

perhaps, or ten with a following wind.

As I walked the mud thickened

on my feet as the rogue cells

were thickening your blood.

It's hard to forget where you were,

on those days.

II

As days became weeks, then months,

you described the treatments

in forensic detail. I imagine

the doctor did not get away

with any waffle.

The worst case date passed by,

as each year lived

allowed new medication,

new research.

Chemicals distributing

cleansing death

through your body,

but at such a price.

Marrow extracted
from anonymous, caring bones
flew the Atlantic.

III

One day, in our irregular

update call, you asked me

what I thought about dying.

I had no answer - nothing

but awkward platitudes.

IV

It wasn't two years,

but neither was it ten.

It was seven, or more precisely,

as you would have insisted,

seven and a half.

Six months is a long time.

We carelessly let a day

go past,a week, a month.

But as I sat in the cold

cathedral, where you found
some comfort,
I knew how precious

those days of life

must have been.

Yet even there,
in God's grandest house,

voices of tourists echoing

in the vast and perfect space,

still no answer came.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Michael Beckwith from Pixabay

Sheltering

Sheltering

My boots crunch dark gravel.
Wind whips the skin of standing water.
Sheltering, behind a dry wall -
grey, flecked stone -
a snowdrop.

Stem bending in the wind,
fragile petals tossed,
sitting out the storm.

A quick brooding cloud
brings rain then hail -
small, stinging barbs of ice.
I join the snowdrop
and we hide together.

The cloud slides by,
sun lights the immaculate
white head as it nods
in the nagging breeze.


Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Capri23auto from Pixabay

That's Politics And This Is Us

In October 2017 the BBC aired a documentary series where Simon Reeve travelled through Russia. One of the interviews that stuck with me was a woman called Tatiana who lived in a rural village north of Moscow that was slowly dying. This is not unusual, of course, having happened here as cities become wealthier and more attractive to young people. When questioned about the increasing tension with the west and whether we should be fighting, she made the comment "There's politics and there's us". How true that is.

That's Politics And This Is Us

In the heartlands of Russia
where state farms once held sway
cottages collapse
when the kids move away.
They leave behind old folk
and the villages die -
the only things left
are mosquitos and flies.

In Rio's favelas,
in South Central LA
where the roaches come calling
as night follows day.
In the war zones of Syria
where the dead children sigh
there's always a welcome
when hope goes to die. 

In the capital cities
where oligarchs rule
they always remember
who they have to fool.
When they feel threatened
by the forces within
they find a new enemy
and it all starts again. 

The elected dictator
of Moscow's new dawn
still curses the day
that Glasnost was born.
He ramps up the rhetoric
for a second Cold War,
the chess pieces move
and the walls rise once more.

We're told by our leaders
who we have to hate -
they press the buttons
that determine our fate.
Americans and Russians
in helmets and boots
have all the same problems
caused by leaders in suits.

In the sad Russian village
the woman just sighs
when asked of her feelings
and the arguments why
Westerners are enemies
and then become friends
then enemies once more -
a song without end

"It is as it will be
and it was ever thus
I just say - that's Politics,
and this is us.”

 Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Дмитрий Осипенко from Pixabay

Outback

Outback

Day was born again to clear, dark skies;
red-orange, cold winter falls on holy ground
that tourists climb to soil and desecrate
while sullen, ancient, drink-wrecked locals
haunt the streets of Alice.

Northwards, under a billion unfamiliar stars,
towards the warmth on miles of black tar track.
We paused at dusk as trucks ploughed on,
pouched animals gaping, splattered
by road-trains that roll like behemoths
through lonely towns.

Under canvas in the outback,
wary of each and every
scratching, shrieking night-noise.

This is no land for soft-skinned Poms,
this burnt land, desiccated, exhausted.
As the sun rises and falls all grows less dry,
reds turn to yellows. Green winter shoots
caught our eye as we trod the place
where the Devil played marbles as a boy.

This scorched land, parched and screaming
for the rain that flows like Heaven's cleansing.
When rivers fill and reptilian danger
lurks silently in creek and bush.
At last we reach the wave-smashed rocky shore,
the swirling sea in which no man can swim alive.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by pen_ash from Pixabay

Whale

Whale

You are the symbol of our time,
belly filled with all our waste.
I observe you, mouth agape,
filtering your food
in the blue-black deep.
Your loneliness is fed
and grows with time,
a dark and brooding cancer
in our seas.
Your bulk glides through
the salt and weed
past fish that flicker
fast and free.
Your eye, a tiny pinprick on your
glorious head
sees only what it needs to see
and I see you, emerging proud
above the foaming waves,
with a twist come crashing down
with farewell flick of giant tail. 


Tim Fellows 2019

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

Prospect Villa

Prospect Villa

The house has rarely been as cold as this
since we were here together long ago
the coal fire standing quiet and unlit
as dormant as the rose of Jericho

Mist from dad's paintings leaks into the air
the signs of you recorded everywhere
the scratches on the table, four plain chairs
became the altar of your daily prayers

A love shared out through all the happy years
hides in these walls, I feel it through my skin;
it seeps into my bones and swells the tears
so loaded with the grief I hold within.

But like the rose this place will flower anew
and love will flow and build another home
and other children will remember too
this house where I, in silence, stand alone.

Tim Fellows 2019

Upon Hull

I spent time in Hull when I was a student in 1983, working for what had been the White Fish Authority and had recently become "Seafish". I have been back a few times, but never for very long, often as a rugby referee or with the children for tennis events. I recently went back and had a bit of a drive round, then ran alongside the Humber to where I briefly worked.




Upon Hull

War, raging on the sea,
far from the city,
had shaken its foundations.

I walked the avenues
and breathed the cold air
where gulls cried.

Made phone calls in piss-soaked
white boxes
on the edge of nowhere.

Docks still alive with men,
fish processed on the quays
reeked with an ungodly
and malevolent odour.
Their dead eyes wept.

The diesel-stained train
pulled away from the city
that the poet so waspishly
put down.
The train departed but he stayed.

Across broken bridges the city splits,
each side lapping
from the slick waters.

I drive the twin lanes they built
to speed the traffic through.
No need to stay and look.

But I stay - I spend time, observe
the decaying, graffiti-stained
buildings I once worked.
Shattered glass sparkles.
Scudding clouds
head over bleak flatlands
to the killing grounds.

It parades its pawn shops,
vaping emporia and boarded-up
forgotten nightclubs.
Relentlessly and unapologetically
working class.

Here, where the fish once stank,
a retail heaven of glass and gaud.
The poet may have asked
"Which stinks more?"

Pockets of industrial resistance
break through dereliction
and try to stem the tide.

Grey-blue ebbing river,
choppy under knifing gusts -
the life-blood. Towers
stand in splendid defiance
as sparse traffic crosses its span.

A quick, blood soaked blade
once gutted this city -
flesh decaying,
rancid, spoiled.

I leave it behind once more,
receding in my mirror,
as the day warms
the fractured memories.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Andrew Sidebottom from Pixabay