The Colours of Her Skirt

Based on a memory, which may be unreliable, from some time in the 1960s. 

With thanks to Sarah Wimbush and Ian Parks for editing and for the suggestions, including the title. 

The poem was published on the Black Nore review website on November 6th 2023 - find it here. 

 

The Old One

In September 2022 I had the immense privelege of feeding and walking with elephants in South Africa. I also saw them in the wild on safari. Their power and beauty close up was extraordinary.

The elephant I walked with was called Sally and she was the matriarch of the group. While I was there my Auntie Christine passed away, following on from the death of Queen Elizabeth II.

This made me think of our own matriarchs and how their leadership and influence is underestimated. 

The Old One

The sun beat on her mud-baked back.
With languid swish of tail she paused
as others padded on towards the pool
where winding trunks would suck and squirt

fresh mud applied and thirsty mouths
could drink. She watched them dimly
through her ancient eyes, daughters
and their daughters. Sons somewhere

gently treading through the fecund bush
with small ones of their own. A long
and quiet life, each heavy step
landing on her wrinkled, cushioned feet.

She flapped her ears, listened to the birds
and lifted up her trunk towards the sky.
For one last time she sensed familiar scents
before she turned her wise and giant head

and pushed her way into the waiting bush. 

Tim Fellows September 2022

Cradle Song

 A poem inspired by Miguel Hernandez and by the birth of my third grandson Oscar Luke Fellows.

 

Cradle Song

The air sings to you,
born in blood,
and you cry back;
first breath
cold in your body.

The blood is now your blood,
your mind is now your mind.

The phantoms we dance with in the night
sing you to sleep

and you lose yourself
in the warmth of her breast.

Tim Fellows October 2021

An Inquest Into a Mining Death, 1935

In memory of Matilda Hooper (1884-1950), mother of James Ernest Hooper (1915-1935) and James William Hooper, my grandfather. 

A true story.

An Inquest Into a Mining Death, 1935

The jury donated their fees to the mother
of the dead miner.
The words of the witnesses had hung
in the stale air, crushing and suffocating.
How he was in the wrong place
at the wrong time.
How the company was not at fault.
It was sad of course, but part of life.
Before they filed out into the soot-soaked streets
she made sure she thanked them all
for their sympathy and generosity. 

Tim Fellows 2021

The Churchyard

Published on the allpoetry website in January 2021 and promoted as a featured poem. Originally inspired by the Black Bough Poetry Winter 2021/22 submission for short poems but it didn't really fit the remit.

 

The Churchyard

 

The gate creaks slightly, and I tread gently
by the sad stones, the tiny beds of lost children
who in twists of destiny would lie further on.

To where my icy footprints now take me. 

Past the low wall, memorials large and small.

The flowers I place will die too, dessicate
as the cold sun picks out gilded letters,

illuminates stark dates. I leave, passing tilting stones,
weathered names fading as I observe
the marks my feet made before are melting away. 

Tim Fellows 2021

 

Photo (c) Bill Henderson 2004 shared under Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike license

Long Rows

Written after a workshop on Imtiaz Dharker examining the subject of childhood and poverty.

The Long Rows in Clay Cross were where my mum grew up.

Click here to hear about the Long Rows

 

 

Long Rows

Here they come, ragged pullovers
smeared with dirt, snotty-sleeved,
pushing and fighting. 

Basin haircuts, running from the rain,
scrapping for playthings. Old boxes,
a burst casey, metal rods.

Always hungry, wanting to play
but wanting mam's tea more. Gulping
it down like dogs. 

Waiting for their dads to come home
from the pit. Some with joy,
some with fear.

And it'll be them too, after the grubby days
on the crumbling roads, doors open,
in and out.

Here they'll come, booted and black,
smeared with dust, throats on fire,
shattered.

Tim Fellows 2020

chain

chain

the laburnum tree shaded our garden

we sat on the stone steps

where the flowers fell; a golden rain

mum told us it was poisonous

if we ate it

the petals lay, weak

and dull, where they fell

their time was glancing, they shone

in vernal splendour

until the chain was broken

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Anna Armbrust from Pixabay

Fellows Park

This recalls my one and only visit to the old home of Walsall FC on 11th March 1978 to watch the 2-2 draw with Chesterfield. The stadium was demolished in May 1990.

My great great-grandmother Mary Elizabeth Fellows came from the Black Country to Stonebroom, Derbyshire, in 1878 when she was 8 years old. She married Joseph Smith when pregnant with her son, William Edward Fellows-Smith (who became Fellows). Joseph and William died within a month of each other in 1931. Mary died in 1933.

Fellows Park

I once went to a place and time

that drifts only in memories;

in dreams of Black Country

Saturday crowds

and floodlit nights.

Named like me, it was old

when I was young. Where our name

was familiar, when pubs filled

with smoke and hate ran

in silent currents.

I had come from there, before

the concrete was laid, before the

ragged stands were built.

But now my accent jarred,

all around was red and I was blue.

Connections were lost in

a century of exile and change.

The bulldozers moved in, smashed

the glass panes, brought down

everything they had built.

Tim Fellows May 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

Butterscotch

This is written in memory of my granddad James William "Bill" Hooper (1908-2002)

Butterscotch

He rarely ventures from the house,
the narrow terrace, tucked away
in the back streets of his familiar
town. Just to the shops, lamb chops
or a few shillings each way bets.

Dressed for the occasion
- suit, tie and trilby -
on a pilgrimage, one man
among the thronging chatter,
no champagne lunch for him
in the warmth of the grandstand.

Fingers calloused from fifty
years labour at the pit. Surface work,
didn't pay so well but not in the
hole that crushed his brother.
Tracing the names on the card,
searching for the right one.

It's not the money, it's the thrill
of the race, the win. It was never
worth the risk when money was
so hard earned.

This has been his day, his escape.

Back to the train,
boxes of butterscotch in a bag
for the nippers. Perhaps with more
coins and notes than he came with,
perhaps not.

He enters the silent house,
banks the fire
and settles into the settee.
He closes his eyes and dreams
of thundering hooves,
flashing colours splattered with mud,
straining muscles,
wild eyes
and feels
the rising
exhilaration.

Tim Fellows 2019

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

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

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

Tree, seen from the hospital window

Tree, seen from the hospital window

From the window of your room I see
on horizon's edge, a single tree
It will remain when you are free
of earthly roots.

Others have stood in this place before,
have seen that tree, want nothing more
than to shatter nature's primal law
that life must end.

Is that far tree as lonely as I feel?
If not forever then could I steal
a few more days, a vain appeal
for precious time.

The time has come, now I must go
you briefly wake, and I surely know
that though the tree does thrive and grow
it too will die.


Tim Fellows Easter 2019


Image by M. Roth from Pixabay

Spirit

 I wrote this one a while ago now as an exercise at Read To Write when we were looking at the poetry of Thomas Hardy. It's based on a real incident that happened a few days after my dad died in 2005.

Spirit

1

I knew at once that he was there
"Hello Dad", I said, even though
 in the mirror I could see behind
nothing at all but light and air

2

I felt a soothing in my soul

Tortured by such knotting pain

in lonely hours, the darkest days

when there was no-one could console

3

A shaft of light broke through the grey

As his presence drifted off

"It'll be OK Dad", I said at last

 Though I wished so much for it to stay

Tim Fellows 2019

Today

For my lovely wife Fiona.

Today

Today was the day the sun shone brighter
reflected light on clear glass waltzing
Today was the day the grass grew greener
morning dewdrops gently smiling

Today was the day the planets sang,
straying from their path, aligning.
Today was the day the trees all flowered
though outside it is December

Today was the day the walls all crumbled
the ground beneath us quietly trembling
Today was the day the sky was bluer
filled with swooping murmurations

Today was the day when life restarted
born like mewling lambs in springtime
Today was the day
that I met you.

Tim Fellows 14 Feb 2019

What Do I Think Of?

This is the second poem I wrote in memory of mum. I read it at her committal  and my son Luke read it at her memorial service.

What Do I Think Of?

What do I think of,
when I think of you?
A tidy house,
sparkling clean.

Washing blowing on the line.

Carefully tended plants,
neat gardens,
nature's friend.
Working hard
at home and in the shop -
bringing back treats in your bag
after five o'clock.

Then making tea,
ready for us to eat -
deep fried home made chips,
boiling stews, steaming puddings,
comforting.
In good times and bad,
the person we all relied on
for sound advice -
reassuring,
consoling,
encouraging.

The faithful friend,
constant in your Faith,
practicing what they preached.

But most of all,
today and every day,
when I think of you,
I think of Love.

Tim Fellows October 2018

Frying Ham

In memory of my grandma Rita Fellows (1913-1978) 

I have clear memories of one particular morning, but I'm sure it happened many times. She would look after us when my Mum and Dad were at work. 

Frying Ham

The thick pan, blackened by its constant use,
spits with fat; hot from the blistering flame
I stand, expectant, watching while it
hisses, crackling as the sallow winter
sun peers in to see the gravid slice of
frying ham dropped; carefully, quickly
leaving my grandma's work-worn tender hands.

She asks me to stand guard but not to touch
as, attending to other household tasks,
she bustles to another room and I,
with salivating mouth, observe pink flesh
turn slowly darker as the shrinking meat
releases scents that on my brain imprint
the loving memory of my days with her.

The ham is turned and soon it will be mine,
resting in sliced brown bread that magically
appears, absorbing salty, pungent juice.
From the plate expectant hands lift slowly
to the open mouth, closed eyes, the easy bite
through sodden bread, teeth tear the supple ham.

I lift my eyelids and I sadly know
that fifty years have passed me by since then
and I will never eat such tender meat
or feel my grandma's special love again. 

Tim Fellows 2018

This work started as a piece of prose written at Ian Duhig's workshop at Stones Barn in April 2018. I then changed it to a blank verse format as part of a Read to Write exercise based on Wordsworth's "spots of time". 
 

The Boys of 49

Parkhouse Colliery FC competed at the same level that their modern equivalents Clay Cross Town FC do today. In 1949-50 they took part in the premilinary rounds of the FA Cup, beating Jump before losing to Rawmarsh (1).

The Boys of '49

Heavy boots, caked with mud
churn the windswept Clay Cross field.
Hard men, forged when the game was tough,
would laugh if they could only see
these moneyed, preening superstars
who never knew a real day's work
in factories or down the mine -
they'd wonder at our changing times
would the Boys of '49.

"Two games a week, it's all too much!",
cries the coach, explains his loss
by how their poor tired bodies fail,
try telling post-war Clay Cross
folk where men worked shifts before they played
in rationed times they never made
the same complaints; they just ploughed on
did the Boys of '49.

Rain soaked leaden leather ball
encased and laced to match their boots
meets a resilient, determined head
or waits while Tommy aims and shoots.
No high tech swerving perfect sphere,
feather-like, caressed by priceless
technicolor foot
insured beyond their lifetime's pay -
a million miles from football's roots
and the Boys of '49.

No Ferraris for these blokes,
no image rights or Nike ads.
Just the pride of the red and white,
the bond they had with the other lads.
Woodger, Brazell, Wragg, Dooley, and Lunn -
the whistle goes, the game is won.
Connaughton, Bradbury, Simms and Baker -
they won't dive, no simulation faker.
Bernard Bowen and Tommy Churm -
my uncles, faces proud and firm
stare from this ancient photograph
this timeless, epic epitaph
to the Boys of '49.

Tim Fellows 2018  

(1) Information courtesy of the Football Club History Database

Lifted

Yesterday evening I had the privilege once again of reading one of my poems at the commemoration event at the National Coal Mining Museum for England. The one I chose was "Walking Home" about the 1938 Disaster at Markham. This one was inspired by those events, by memories of my family and by my visits to the memorial at the NCMM. We were discussing last night that many poems about the industry dwell on the difficulty and danger that was involved - I hope this one carries a more positive message.

Lifted

They carry me easily
those blue-scarred men
From decades in the burrowed earth
lifting the black rock

They lift me up
Through exams they never sat
they carry me
Through the halls of academe
in which they never walked
they carry me
In journeys to the ends of the earth
they never took
they carry me.

From out of the darkness
they lift me into the sunlight
while they must stay
under the ground
until the day that I join them
I am lifted.

Tim Fellows 2018