parkrun Sonnet

This was written in memory of our lovely parkrun friend Lesley, who passed away in March 2020.

parkrun Sonnet

for Lesley

There's something spiritual about this ground -
where lapping water, trees, the songs of birds
all seep into your heart, whose steady pound
beats time in rhythms strong and unimpaired.

No foul weather, no wind or rain prevents
the faithful souls from being there, to pace
around your well-trod paths, this shared event
is more than just a run that's not a race.

The friendship that we've made, our running gang,
lasts longer than the time to run 5K;
it's what brings you back, carries you along
at nine o'clock on every Saturday.

And when at last we've rounded both your lakes
we've earned our just reward - what else but cake?

Tim Fellows 2020

November Wind

For Mum and Dad.

November Wind

I could sense them more than hear them,
lying alone in bed imagining souls
swirling in pain,
seeking gaps, any sliver of a crack
inside the old house.

The wind has woken them, or perhaps
the orange-sparks of fireworks
recently spent had revived their memories
of Novembers past.

They moan, their aching voices
rising and falling, clattering the
windows, lifting the slates.
Had they risen from the scrubland
where the Blocks once stood?
Where they lived, ten to a house,
and slave to the Pit?

Or did they come from below, from
the tunnels darker than the deepest night
where they sweated and swore,
the place that tried to break them and
steal their soul?

Earlier, Dad had ventured out,
against Mum's better judgement.
He dashed from front door
to garage, wearing a hard hat to
protect from any flying debris.
I watched as they ripped it from
his head and carried it down
the littered street, and I reckoned
I heard their laughter. They would
have this November night as their own,
for in the morning they would be silenced.

Tim Fellows April 22nd 2020

Numbers

Written during the coronavirus pandemic in April 2020. When we see the numbers rising, we can forget that each one is loved. 

Just a few of the NHS workers who died as a result of the virus

Numbers

Every number is a face
that will not feel the morning sun

Every number is a breath
that will not catch a favourite scent

Every number is a heart
that beat out time and loved and cared

Every number is one more
that grows the graph we see each day

Every number is a man,
a woman, child who once was loved

with face, with heart, with skin and brain
that will not share their love again.


Tim Fellows 2020

Nurse

Nurse

The nurse closes her eyes and, in her dream,

imagines a world where she isn't exhausted

where she has what she needs

to do the job she loves to do.

The nurse, on his daily commute,

is stalked by the spirits

of all those he feels were betrayed,

their cries ignored by the politics of greed.

He pays for the parking space and sighs.

Tim Fellows August 2018

Orgreave Winter 19

Orgreave Winter 19

A cruel, stinging breeze
is behind me now
pushing through
the bleak lands
where battle once raged.

Crack of ice under foot
recalls the 
crack of boot on ribs.

Dark water runs cold
where blood ran warm.

Tall grasses wave in time
to the beat of ancient wrongs.

Dogs run free
where once the dogs of war
were loosed.

No sign remains, no mark,
no echoes. 

Tim Fellows 2019