St George

 St George

St George, a gallant. A dragon slayer.

Knight of the realm. His shield and crest a cross of red

on white, signifying a  virgin's purity of heart,

(defence enough against any sinful act or enemy of good).

My country's great defender of damsels and young loyal lads.

A royal favourite, supping at top table with the Queen's ladies;

riding with the King  on a snorting white charger

Through an oak filled forest canopied in green.

And as a school girl,  I glued the paper cross with pride

onto a cardboard cut-out of a shield. I held the crest

and wooden sword in belief that  George and Good

and English Pluck could kill the dragons

of my land; protect the children, poor, and weak,

against  evil. And give me strength to fight.

Eccup Reservoir

   

Eccup Reservoir

The roads were clear,

until the last junction,

where traffic stopped

still.

He sulked.

“The car will overheat,

it will not function.

A Ford Cortina Mark 1

needs coddling.”

We turned  to go.

Where?

To Eccup Reservoir

where I had walked,

two years ago

by the edge of the water

in the hot July sun.

We zipped down country lanes,

asked ladies in brogue shoes,

directions.

Found nothing but an empty road,

which he said was boring…

nearly stamped his feet in rage.

(Thinking of his Classic Cars).

I said, “We can’t go home,

it’s three o’ clock,

the sun is out and you’ll just moan.

try that way.”

We stopped at a lay by.

A sign signaled footpath.

Up we trekked

his face grim,

but the sun fell softly

between the sycamores and oaks

dappling his face

with light.

He rallied round.

Hopscotch

Hopscotch

I was never too hot

on hopscotch.

I was rather more interested

in walking, one

foot in front of the other foot

like a fox, or reading,

or in any other damn thing

that didn’t involve hopping.

I never got the rules.

I couldn’t throw the stone,

or gauge the distance

with half closed eye

like the girl in 4Y.

I scowled at the game.

Sat instead and read a book,

hiding the grey secrets of my home.

Climbing

Climbing

Just below the summit we are scrambling

over outcrops, iron soled boots holding

good on  frigid crusts of rock and icing -

cake white tipped ledges; faces grimacing

against the screech, the howl, north bitch, biting

gusts of galing wind. Such unforgiving

grey. The mass of cloud scuds breathless, sucking

air from crevasses, gullies, clefts, gasping

a sudden mist. We must not lose our footing.

not at this height, white blinded, fingering

every niche for safety. Our legs trembling

we inch forward. Higher now, blood is thudding

a tribal tattoo, a  bone is drumming

a rhythm of wings beating.

Picnic

Picnic Rug

Beneath us a plaid rug, red and black and green squares

tucked neatly and flat under plates and dirty spoons

as we eat our dainty bites of moon shaped cake.

The rug no longer tugs us down to kiss

the soft undersides of lips and napes of neck.

No longer does it buckle softly under scuffled hugs

or rucks or bares soft grass and earth

to naked arms and legs akimbo

scattering cakes, crockery

         and crumbs like confetti.

Betty

Betty

Down the cobbled road to Pye Nest,

through the soot black streets,

past granite houses, comes Great Aunt Betty.

She trip traps down the passage

conductor's leather bag bulging with coins;

silver sixpences and brass threepenny bits.

Uniformed green and grey

signifying Calder and Hebble buses

and journeys up the Ribble Valley

below Heptonstall, through Hebden Bridge,

by granite mills flanked on either side.

And I journey with her to the last stop.

Fairies and Witches

 

 

Fairies and witches.

A large black oak, (I knew through the nature table

in the classroom),

was the dwelling place of the black evil witch

with bony fingers, and the nose of a crow

sprouting warts and hairs, and sporting the

black gown of nuns who lived

on the corner where we used to thread daisies

into chains.

I was the witch.

The other girls were always fairies,

pink and white, pig tailed and right

about almost anything to do

with butterflies and the best wings.

I was the witch. I ran screaming,

my heart beating, after the angels.

They would turn, smiling, shrieking

and hit me -

bad witch that I was.