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

The Spirit of Paul Weller

The Spirit of Paul Weller

for Ralph Dartford

The spirit of Paul Weller

is on my shoulder

one Saturday in '78.

Up the short hill to the record shop,

the treasure trove,

a cornucopia of delights

in plastic and cardboard.

Nice says Paul as I jangle

the carefully saved coins

in my pocket.

Rows of stacked recordings

contain the aspirations of artists

and the dreams of boys.

Multicoloured covers, some pure art,

others photos of snarling or serious

young men who will change the world.

Paul laughs in my ear,

as if he knows the truth.

I laugh at the man with long hair

and the kaftan on the prog rock album.
Your day is done,

my friend.

My fingers flick through the 45s

as Paul nods or tuts

until one is lifted and exchanged

for coins at the counter.

Where are we going now?, says Paul.


Tim Fellows 2020


Image by Ranya from Pixabay

All the Stars Bow Down

All the Stars Bow Down

For Fiona

When my eyes first captured
your face, the light
imprinted my memory;
the Sun turned to cool blue
and all the stars bowed down.

When we touched, our hands
then our lips, unified,
bonded with rose-red kisses,
the Moon stopped in the sky
and all the stars bowed down.

As time and gravity bend our lives
the light will never dim, it shines
more gloriously.
Mercury takes flight,
Venus smiles,
Mars accepts the hand of peace,
the Sun turns to cool blue,
the Moon stops in the sky
and all the stars bow down.

Tim Fellows February 14th 2020

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

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