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

Linacre Woods in Summer

A follow-up to my winter Linacre Woods poem

Linacre Woods in Summer

Only the holly remembers the winter.
The rest slept, brown and drenched,
as frost and wind were kings
within these woods. Now they stretch,
reach out to brush and scratch my exposed skin.

Here, between the rigid trees, the sun
spotlights the path. Cow parsley crowns rise
high. Briars mock, rope-thick, dagger-sharp.
Behind, in the depths, the woods call.
Part of me is drawn there, to lie
in dark dampness. Become one with the earth.   

Tim Fellows Summer 2021

Image by Valiphotos from Pixabay

Gentleman

A found poem - that I tweaked and extended - in the comments section of YouTube below the video we made of Ian Parks' poems. The contributor is anonymous, as I don't think "Hugh Mungus" is their real name. 😀  

Gentleman

for Ian Parks

I often used to see him, walking
on Castle Hills. Always well dressed,
looked like he didn't belong here.

I even saw him down dog shit alley,
he didn't have any airs or graces

but seemed like he had another world
that developed and swirled in his head

and though

I am from the lowest class in this broken town
I love listening to his words.

I once said eyup to him, walking
with my soft but stocky looking Staffy.
 
He smiled and said hello back.
Absolute gentleman of a man.

Tim Fellows 2021 

with help from Hugh Mungus