Categories
Poetry

A Poetry Response

26th November 2018

I Composed this piece after reading fellow poet Luna’s Poem #93

You can find that piece here

Sent it to her first, then i thought i’d share it with the rest of you all…enjoy

If you want to comment, feel free to post – Inky.

Loco 673, a steam train at National Railway Museum, York
Loco 673, at National Railway Museum, York

I watched from the other platform
the girl with the not so happy smile
she let the express go by her
and was sat by the tracks for a while
sat on her own – as the trains went by
something began to question why?
so over the platform I started to walk
and sat by the platform – and the two of us talked

Categories
Industrial Poetry writing

Tritina for Railways

York , April 7th 2016

Having visited the National Railway Museum in York today, I’ve been inspired to write this Tritina in honour of the railways….enjoy .   P.S. Comes with Flying Scotsman Pic!

DSC_0016.JPG
Opposite the Flying Scotsman – Bill, Nigel and Joe

#Napowrimo #Blogging101 #Railways #York

The Horses came down the country Roads

Delivering by cart Black gold – Coal

To move the Iron Horse by Steam

And these mighty horses – fuelled by coal

Moved across rails on road

Powered by steam

Wheels of steel moved by steam

Replaced wagons on road

using engines fuelled by coal

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.