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

Back To Blighty 2019

I've updated my 2017 poem Back to Blighty.

Back to Blighty 2019

Descending through the steely clouds
Bumpy vapour shakes the plane
As we emerge from the heavy shroud
Green summer land in slanting rain
From Central Europe's sunny lands
Vienna, Munich, Buda, Pest
From the Costa's fiery sands
Exotic East, exciting West
Back to Blighty

Onto the drizzle sodden runway
Doors swing open, cold air blasts
From the steps the hurried dash away
The arrivals queue is not so fast.
Europeans this way for now
For how long will we be as one?
We'll separate ourselves, the proud
and glorious sons of Albion
Back in Blighty

Pasty skins burnt in far off nations
Our favoured holiday destinations
Drunken, arrogant, gross and rude
Where we got our proper British food
Outside the traffic coughs and strains
Empty buses, crowded trains
The overloaded network groans
And everybody bloody moans
In modern Blighty

No contact from unsmiling eye
The mood on par with leaden sky
Stiff upper lip in force again
Certainty washed down the drain
Young-old, left-right, town and city
One land is torn in parts somehow
Devoid of hope, devoid of pity
Class division seems so simple now
In beleaguered Blighty

Isolation, desolation
Truly a divided nation
Braying politicians preen
Sombre news barks from our screens
The Brexit party turns its back
On 60 years of peaceful pact
They wrap themselves in our Union flag
They make me want to fucking gag
Remembering glorious bygone days
The Empire pillaged when we ruled the waves
Consumed by petty greed and hate
yearning to be the US 51st state
We protest, scream into the void
Credibility destroyed
In Dear Old Blighty

The world we knew it is no more
Stop harking back to the bloody War
They're queueing at the food bank door
and it's not the immigrants making them poor
Our Empire rose and fell before
We're rotten to our bloated core
We have no clue what we stand for
Good luck, dear Blighty

(c) Tim Fellows 2019

Winter Mornings

Written at The Poetry Business workshop in November 2019

Winter Mornings

Those winter mornings,
when the sliding ice
lies in wait. The frost is soft,
whiter than any christening cloak.
Blue skies, pulling
you from the enveloping hearth
to where gloveless fingers
turn to white, blood retreating.
Uncovered ears bitten
by Siberian streams;
toes numbed; shivering.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Peggy Choucair from Pixabay

Spine

The Spine is a winter ultra marathon held over a distance of around 268 miles from Edale in the Peak District to Kirk Yetholm, Scotland, along the Pennine Way. Participants are allowed seven days to complete the course.

In 2019 Yasmin Paris smashed the women's record and won the overall race in a time of 83:12:23, or about three and a half days. It inspired this poem.

Spine

The relentless steps of broken feet

under the mountain's watchful gaze

tread the ice-flecked ancient path

as the sun creeps through the haze.

She stares down to the stony ground

so many miles behind her now

her eyes form images that float

and fade like images of snow.

This day the Spine is calm, it

sends no blizzards, clears the sky

nature's silence is the scourge

that cleans the soul as time slips by.

Just one more hour, just one more day

across the heather, rocks and grass

holding Morpheus at bay

as she climbs the mountain pass.

Night falls as her clouded breath

rises to the glittering stars

light older than these rolling hills

guides them like a mystic's prayers

The final, aching, joyful steps

to touch the grey and silent wall

the Spine is beaten but unbowed

and repeats once more its siren call.

Tim Fellows 2019

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