Categories
Poetry Weather

Rainfall

Salford, 23rd August 2020

Moving across the sky

Magnificent clouds of grey

Move to offload their cargo

Angels tears dropping

As the creator drops something heavy

And says something angry (and naughty)

Collecting in crevices on community streets

Creating puddles and in some cases mini reservoirs

Children playing in plastic macs and colourful wellies

Categories
Animals Art Poetry

Furry

Salford 1st July 2020

#writeclub #monsters #poetry #kidspoetry

as part of my write club challenges, i wrote a piece about a “Monster” with claws and teeth and horns – more like a caterpillar with 100 Feet!

(Anyone with kids remember a Lotsa-Lotsa-Leggs ? 🙂 )

Caterpillar – doodle of a toy by inky.

I know , you know its not halloween

but i’ve got to tell you about this thing i’ve seen

snaking round Salford’s streets

with over a hundred colourful feet

A fluffy centipede , orange fur, purple hair

grown ups walking past they stare

at multi coloured spikes on his back

they move on quickly – in case of attack

If they had thought – they’d would have seen

those spikes were just fur

he want’s something to munch on

to sleep and to purr

And who does he bump into ? – our neighbours cat

who gives him some room in the upstairs flat…

so before going to bed, he eats leaves and shoots

resting on a mat, his hundred or so boots

And during the dusk, you’ll see them both play

with a ball made of wool – in a particular way

playing under the moon and having some fun

and enjoying a nap – when the day has begun

Categories
Poetry

The Journey

#writephoto #thejourney

Salford (via Rochdale and Oldham), 17th August 2019

A Walker on a hill.

a tale of a rambler , by inky for the writephoto challenge

He went a walk with an empty backpack and staff

off to get a loaf of bread

many hadn’t heard from him for days, some

even thought him dead

For his boot prints went on and on

for what others saw as miles

past footpath and valley , hill and dale

and spot of nature where he’d stay a while

enjoying the fine weather

the silence and peace

and wildlife around him

it was a release

Drawing a scene half way up a hill

taking in sunshine and cup o’ tea till

time came to face his fate

coming back home far too late

Categories
Poetry

Retro

In response to Fandango’s One word Challenge

They say if you can remember the sixties – you weren’t there

but fashion’s a fickle thing

Millennials walking down to the disco

in an homage to their Mums and dads

with some wide flares and knee high boots

listening and dancing to tunes on played on vinyl

that mum danced with dad when they were young

there’s something missing with that digital stuff

no feel, snap , crackle or pop

hearing the groove from the record player – its top!

Categories
Acrostic Water Weather

Raindrops II

Creative clouds

In the sky, create

Round, watery artworks on the

Roadside edge, forming little lakes

Umbrellas and wellingtons at the ready

Something wet has made a splash.

Categories
Camping Outdoor Pursuits Outdoors Schooldays Scouting Scouts

A Tale of Old Boots

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time…

Source: A Tale of Old Boots

Categories
Camping Character Memories Outdoor Pursuits Outdoors Scouting

A Tale of Old Boots

These Boots Were Made for Walking

March 2011

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean.  The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.

But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.

Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.

They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.

Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.

Categories
Camping Character Description Memories Outdoor Pursuits Outdoors Prose Tale writing

A Tale of Old Boots

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time and many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.

Now, Rugby boots and training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.

They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, observing the melodic snoring around them.  And leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.

And when they got home, they created a bit of a fuss. Left outside on the evening news on a step by the Garden lawn.  Local politicians now have the boots treadmarks of mud and clay imprinted on them.  But then again, wi’ these boots – they’ve no interest in politics – unless it’s rights to roam.  The bucket and wire brush look threatening, next to the bin.  But these boots know – you can scrub em till the cows come home – this mud sticks!

Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now – having had a ‘tidyup’ – they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.

Mountain Meadow

Good Companion