Fulfillment Center

Where mines stood, there are now many things. One of which is an Amazon fulfilment centre that sits within view of my bedroom window, on the site of the former Barlborough Colliery.

This was one of a number of poems written as part of a poetic conversation with Paul Brookes.

It was published by The Morning Star newspaper in July 2022

Fulfillment Center

After work he liked to walk the muddy paths
around the lake and up the man-made hill.
Survey the scene. The sprawling warehouse
where he earned his pay squatting on land
where once the wheels had spun, conveyors
rolled and great buckets of black rock
were lifted from miles below the ground.

Where his dad and grandad, and his dad before,
had earned their pay. And he had too,
a flash of time before it was all cleared
away, cleansed and sanitized. The days
when he was married, when they worked
in heat and dust, watched each others' backs.
Now he was just a robot with skin and flesh,
waiting to be replaced by one that didn't
need to sleep. That wouldn't feel the wind
at the top of this hill, that had no memories.

One that fulfilled orders and never needed
to be fulfilled. 

Tim Fellows 2020 

Coffee

Written for Dave Elsom's "Let Them Eat Cake" Art Exhibition.

Coffee

The wind bit as she looked through
the slightly misted glass. Steam hissed
from the machine. Milk frothed.
As the door opened the smell of coffee
infused her head. Latte. Cappuccino.
Americano. There was cake. Chocolate
with orange, lemon drizzle, ginger.

She imagined herself in the cafe,
sipping an espresso, savouring her biscotti.
Reading her friends' posts on facebook,
getting a nice text from her husband.

Even an instant coffee, a digestive
and a Penguin each for the kids would do.

She had none of these things.
   

Tim Fellows January 2022

But the lino print at https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/753521856/hooray-coffee-linoprint-a5-handmade

 

 

Sheffield Station

Written on Sheffield station on the way to the Harold Massingham launch in Mexborough on 4th December 2021

 

 

Sheffield Station 

There is beauty in this greyness
but this faded edifice lost its charm
as decades rolled - empty
carriages dragged by a growling diesel.

Rain falls from the roof edge;
masked faces conceal joy and pain,
the hope and despair of winter grained
in the hollows of their eyes.

Tim Fellows December 2021 

 

Photo by Rept0n1x - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11001909

 

 

Full Circle

Published in "The View From Olympia" by Half Moon Books in July 2020

Full Circle

My wheels and head are spinning,
windscreen crazed,
my world turned upside down.
There is no pain but I can't move.
I black out.
Lights flash past as I wake on the trolley.
Later, the consultant is professional
and explains things I don't really hear.
There are five stages of grief, or maybe seven.
Hope is arguable.

Rehab, setbacks, frustration, but the worst
of all is pity.

And now, out of my usual chair,
I am ready. All the years of pain, work
and yes, hope, bring me here.
The stadium is full, and above my heart,
that I often wished would just stop beating,
is the red, white and blue.
I look up and see the rings,
and I know I have come full circle.
My wheels will be spinning once more
and this time I will be in control.


Tim Fellows 2019

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 Purbeck Boy

I wrote this one after a walking holiday in Dorset hosted by Jay and Jon from the folk group Ninebarrow. Poole harbour was used as practice for the D-Day landings. It's quite rare for me to write a ballad these days, but it felt right.

 

The Purbeck Boy

In the mellow cloak of summer
I played on dappled lanes
and climbed up to the Ridgeway
and dreamed of roaring Mains

where I would sail a mighty ship
in pirate days of old
with sword and musket I would search
for silver and for gold.

Though I was just a boy back then
and now I am a man
my heart still drums to Purbeck's beat;
my blood flows through this land.

The Dartford Warbler in the furze,
the adder on the trail;
Old Harry's white and battered sides,
the ruin on the hill

will never fail to comfort me
and harden in my core;
fight all the darkness in my mind
as we prepare for war.

I grip my gun in shaking hands
as we set out to sea
no Spanish Main, no treasure, just
the coast of Normandy.

I pray to God with all my strength
as we splash on the shore
that I may roam the verdant fields
and Purbeck's hills once more.

On Juno Hell has risen up
and Gold turns slowly red
where bullets fly and meet with flesh
and waves comfort the dead.

So far from there the Warbler sings;
the sun lights up the lanes
and seabirds nest on ancient cliffs
til I return again.

Tim Fellows June 2021