Blackbird

Two poems inspired by Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience. And by a pair of blackbirds that have been constant companions in the garden during the COVID-19 lockdown.

Blackbird (Innocence)

Oh, little friend, as dark as night

that brings the sunlight to my day.

Do you see me as I see you?

A beacon in a sky of grey.

Your mark your path with hops and skips

and sing with joy at dawn's slow rise;

your feet are bathed in glist'ning dew,

bright circles frame your pitch black eyes.

Your constant presence stretches time

as though God sent you as my guide;

where is the fear, when you are here?

there is but calm and peace inside.

Blackbird (Experience)

He's here again, as dark as night,

perched, sentry-like, upon my fence.

I see him, bringing clouds of rain

and opiates to dull my sense.

He now takes flight, an angel black,

and lands on grass that withers brown.

He pulls a worm, rips it apart,

opens his throat and gulps it down.

In empty circled eyes I see

no pity for a creature's life.

Yet creeps behind the sly striped cat

with claws as sharp as any knife.

Tim Fellows July 2020

Image by Uschi Dugulin from Pixabay

The Umpire

Celebrating the return of cricket, as the rain lashes down on the empty seats at the Test in Southampton. Today the sun is out and lower level cricket returns.

The Umpire

This was going to be his last season.
Eyes dimming, brain not so sharp,
the slight stumbling and shaking hand;
the harbinger.

And soon his battered old white coat
will hang in his wardrobe;
the six beads in the pocket
uncounted.

He had loved playing
but his skills were short of the mark.
He laughed and signalled "short run"
to himself.

Unexpectedly he found his place; standing
behind the stumps or at square leg.
Hearing the thumping spikes
behind him; watching the batsman
prepare, the red projectile launched,
the fizzing as he followed

its arc.

He closes his eyes; smells the leather,
the oil, the fresh mown grass.
Recalls the slight youth, mocked
by the old lags on his tremulous walk
to the middle.

Inwardly smiling as the boy
caressed that first delivery;
smooth as a cat on its owner's leg.
Dismissed it across the dry turf. Followed
it with many more. 

That boy was old now too.
Both waiting for stumps
to be called. Or the cry of Howzat!
followed by that dreadful pause
to see if God would raise
his finger.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by sitnfidget from Pixabay

Nursing

Part two of my two-poem sequence. Today is the 72nd anniversary of the NHS but this is not about the fabulous individuals who have risked their lives for the last three months. I will however, dedicate it to them and all the other key workers. Let's not forget them as and when this virus fades into the background.

Nursing

It's an old school pub,

cramped, dark wood, no food.

In the corner a man sits,

moulded as one with the wooden

bench. Flat cap welded to his head,

eyes fixed forward. One hand wrapped

around a pint, its head evaporated.

I wonder what wheels are turning

in his ancient mind. What puzzles solved,

what wrongs righted.

He lifts the glass slowly to his mouth,

which moves to meet it. The sip

is slow and shallow and its return journey

to the table breaks no record.

In the opposite corner, another man,

smaller, same cap, same beer. The same

long distance stare. Options run

through my mind but, being English,

all but one are discarded.

I will take my pint to another corner,

nursing it while I wait for the rain

to stop.

Tim Fellows 2020

Bloody Weather

There is a follow-on poem to this - published here.....

Bloody Weather

It's that fine rain,

the kind that soaks you through

says Peter, in my head.

I'm unprepared. Unwilling to run

on cobbles preserved

as quaint relief from modernity.

As the rain quickens

they glisten with a mischievous twinkle

that conflicts with a sky

obscured by grey wrapping.

Lights from an empty shop

illuminate bored assistants.

The doorways offer limited cover

and my mood spirals as I

remember the spare raincoat

I keep in the boot of the car

for these occasions.

Distracted, I step

in a puddle, the dirty water

gleefully finding the gap

between shoe and sock.

No market today, which

is for the best perhaps.

The stalls look sad,

quiet and unloved.

Water cascades from their

coloured roofs and

I can feel it running down my neck.

There's a pub - bugger it,

I'm going in. Bloody weather.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by djedj from Pixabay

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

Undertaker

Written during the coronavirus lockdown.

Undertaker

There was only the faintest sound
of sobbing. It was cold that day,
as when Towton saw so many dead.
Soon, he hoped, when this is done,
things will return to as they were.
When he could deal with tumours, hearts
that stopped in shock. The mangled flesh
and bone, the aged
and those who chose to die.

They sat in separate pews, the broken
widow and the stoic son. No comfort,
no loving touch. An impotent priest.

This plague had come to his house,
the cross was on his door.


Tim Fellows April 2020

Image by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto 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