Categories
Colours

Maroon

#CYW #Maroon

Salford, 9th June 2020

Some say it’s the colour of conkers

after they’ve fallen out of shell

Some say it’s the colour of leather

it’s difficult to tell….

For while its not brown, its most definately not red

its more colour of the cows in the field that are fed

or their hides on the soles of the shoes in the street

covering ladies or gentlemen’s feet

Or perhaps the jacket, that strolls in to town

some shades of this colour – don’t suit a ball gown

the answer you see – to this definite riddle

the maroon colour – is somewhere in the middle

Categories
Colours Poetry

Burnt Sienna

Salford, 15th September

#CYW #BurntSienna

I recall a leather chair

the smell of it as I sat in it in the morning

it’s sound as I got my back into its folds

it squeaked – like a mouse looking for food

Looking out beyond the glass

in a warm seat

looking out for snowmen

beyond the garden fence

Sitting there quietly

watching the snowflakes

fall to the ground

whilst warming my hands on a hot mug

Categories
Character Clothes Poetry

Old Shoes

Salford 23rd September 2018

I remember the day i first bought them,

fresh out of the box and smelling like they’d just come out of the factory

They fitted my feet nicely, but i’d been told i needed to break them in

so over the next few days – i wore them in the house

as i got the feel of them i took them down the Trafford Road

getting them wet in a Greater Manchester rain storm

being well waxed – it didnt effect them for a while

time however is a fickle thing – and my shoes have lost their hardened exterior

My slippers look on in envy, as my feet feel comfy in the broken down softness

wont be long before a trip to the shoe shop – and a rendezvous with the recycle bin

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.