Poems and Prose by
Dr. Geraldine Green, writer-in-residence Swarthmoor Hall, from ‘Salt
Road’ 2013 pub. by Indigo Dreams ed. Ronnie Goodyear
Geraldine Green - Extract from “Poems of a
Mole Catcher’s Daughter” pub. in “The
Other Side of the Bridge” 2012 Indigo Dreams ed. Ronnie Goodyear
Extract from “Poems of a Mole Catcher’s
Daughter”
If
I stand here
the wind
If
I
will
I see Granda’ Fitz’s
Hear
him
An old top
hat
His hands
fluttering
His worms
are words
before they
in the
workhouse.
You can sit on any
Should you ever get bored
with tormentil,
Don’t be fooled,
Watch it
The bees I hear are the
ones that
I watch them, the bees, as
they hum
Below the earth worms grow
rich and fat
into darkness by beetles
and worms, then,
Morecambe Bay
I've never seen this
before, oyster-catchers stretched out
One moment
Crunched icy pebbles and
sand
Only sound the whirring
explosion
A pair of egrets looking
The season for shrimps and
on the wind above the
clifftop
the seagulls the tide full
and returning
I have to write this down
an opening now clear and
opal
I walk out into wind,
And into the
salt and the sea
In from a wet walk in Priory woods, sat under the
cedar of Lebanon in the rain, straight rain, rain that splats commas on your
coat rain, rain that soaks fleece-lined trouser-rain, growing rain. Under a yew
tree not far from the giant cedar primroses are flowering in pale yellow
clusters. By the dog graves snowdrops pushing up shoots alongside daffodils and
graves with names of Gem, Faithful, Satan, Lucifer.
I sat on that seat for ages, staring up at the cedar,
then across to the Priory, almost lost myself in green rain, damp fertility and
offstage oyster catchers calling at low tide on the estuary. I walked on a
little way then stopped and stared at sphagnum moss growing on the branch of a
fir… its branches spread like a miniature tree. I could gaze at moss for ages;
its different greens, delicate fronds, miniature ecosystems growing on trees.
Sticky iron-ored earth: colour of young buffalo.
Of
Reeds and
Teasels
Humid, dampish walk along Bardsea beach – a day
pleasant with finches up and down, feeding on teasels and warblers on reeds.
The silky-tasselled reed heads are turning purple now.
LINKS:
Poems and Prose by
Dr. Geraldine Green, writer-in-residence Swarthmoor Hall, from ‘Salt
Road’ 2013 pub. by Indigo Dreams ed. Ronnie Goodyear
Geraldine Green - Extract from “Poems of a
Mole Catcher’s Daughter” pub. in “The
Other Side of the Bridge” 2012 Indigo Dreams ed. Ronnie Goodyear
Extract from “Poems of a Mole Catcher’s
Daughter”
If
I stand here
hearing
only
the wind
blown
in
on
the
back
of
the
green
Irish Sea.
If
I
close my
eyes
hold
my breath
count to
ten
will
I see Granda’ Fitz’s
brother,
Joe?
Hear
him
making up poems
as he strode
along the
lane
to St
Bees?
An old top
hat
he’d found
in the hedgerow
pushed back
on his
forehead
a whistle
in his hand
his eyes mad
as a
blackbird’s
caught in
the rain.
His hands
fluttering
like birds
his hair
listening
to the wind
his mouth
opening and
closing
like a baby
bird’s.
His worms
are words
his
caterpillars are
rhymes and
starlings
his poems a
way
of letting
jackdaws
in his head
out for a
while
before they
lock him up
again
in the
workhouse.
You can sit on any
of these limestone
outcrops
watching Meadow Browns land
on
harebells, Alpine
ladies slippers
or tormentil, listen to the
wind
shushing bracken
as you sit sheltered, dog
to one side
panting, waiting for
a stick
to be thrown.
Listen to larks
rising,
pulling scent of thyme from
earth,
their song falling
like water.
Should you ever get bored
with tormentil,
Meadow Browns or harebells,
raise your eyes,
look at horses on the
horizon.
Sea-Jay or shire mare,
Annelise,
or white ones
folding over mudflats and
marram
as the tide licks its
way
into gulleys and channels.
Don’t be fooled,
it may look as though
it’s creeping –
each wave searching
for a foothold
but underneath lies its
venom,
quicksand and
currents.
Watch it
rush in under the
viaduct at Plumpton,
or sit near the hide at the
south end of Walney
when it empties the
Bay,
returns to the Irish Sea.
The bees I hear are the
ones that
live in two hives made from
wood
over the dry stone wall
just down
from where the road drops
from
Bardsea village and joins
the coast road.
They, one side of the wall
and I, the other.
I watch them, the bees, as
they hum
their way into air into
honey, gather the
delicacies of spring, spin
their winged
bee-sunned bodies into
nectar.
Below the earth worms grow
rich and fat
on composting bodies – the
badger I saw
last October, shot-down
crow, wounded
rabbit its glazed eyes
gazing up
to the sun, pulled
into darkness by beetles
and worms, then,
through nature’s slow,
alchemical rhythm
turn into light, become the
nettles that hide
the hives, become the
nettles that throw
green pollen.
Morecambe Bay
I've never seen this
before, oyster-catchers stretched out
in a well-drilled line as
the tide comes in
the roar of its dull
thunder powering the sea
that pours across flat
sands.
One moment
I could've sworn all I saw
was mud, but
as the sun
breaks cover
to draw the bay silver,
it’s the tide I see
bellying in with sidewinder
waves
and the birds,
black-and-white waiters with orange bills
dragging it in on invisible
filaments
like a table cloth
all along the edge of the
sea
over flat, grey mud
where waves curve
and birds scurry, actors
in the twice daily drama of
drawing
the tide shorewards.
Crunched icy pebbles and
sand
along the beach from
Deganis' ice cream hut
to the far end of sea wood
and back
in isolation and fog.
Only sound the whirring
explosion
of a sandpiper
darting from the reeds
up and off and over
mudflats.
A pair of egrets looking
as though someone had cut
shapes
in fog exposing these pure
white
small, heraldic herons.
The season for shrimps and
a sign chalked on
blackboard
‘shrimps second cottage on
right’
the names of trees in
Bardsea woods.
I used to know them
I used to know these
things.
The name of Bill Stables’
dog
that trotted behind him
as he rode his bike to
Baycliff
to catch the tide
the sight of Gillam
padding barefoot round
his grocery shop in town.
I used to know the feel of
a
lapwing chick in my hand
taste of wild strawberries
taste of a new laid egg
my dad had found in the
hedge
on his way home from his
shift
at Glaxo. I used to know
the feel of wind on bare
skin
when I ran through bracken
smell of mud its soursalt
tang
sound of the buzzer at
Vickers
sight of thousands of men
pouring
out through the yard’s iron
gates
on foot, on bikes, in cars
– but
back then mainly on foot or
bikes.
Sight of the first primrose
hidden among gorse
on the railway embankment
Nethertown, just by the
bungalow
and always a kestrel
hanging
on the wind above the
clifftop
always the sound of the
Irish Sea
always that taste
sweet as a nut
of freshly peeled shrimps
hauled in
loaded onto tractors,
driven
over mudflats across the
Bay
I used to know.
the seagulls the tide full
and returning
the noise the cries,
purple-pink light
sun rising, bruised sky,
air lifting.
I have to write this down
the air and sea the palms
outstretched, open
holding the moment
the past, the
future and
what is to come
the thankfulness of ocean,
ebb tide flowing
seagulls' cries, air, sun,
purple –
pink light, bruised sky
an opening now clear and
opal
open palms facing the dawn
cupped palms
cradling in one palm the
moment in the other
a poem, together open
praising the day.
Late afternoon, I walk
alongside the mud flats
of Morecambe Bay –
the bay
the flats
the tide that swings
its way in &
out –
different. Different.
I walk out into wind,
salt & flat-caked
mud
baked white in the sun,
tread among samphire,
spiked as yet unplumped
shoots of bright green
small pockets of prayer
parcels of ozone and
ask:
are you really samphire,
that bright jewel of
Shakespeare?
Picked, plucked,
remembered from Lear?
And into the
salt and the sea
and into the
tide & the flats
I follow the
footprints: trainers,
knobbled patterns in salt,
horse's hooves
branding sky
into flesh,
salt into sand,
me into them,
us into us all.
A caterpillar tyre
a shrimper’s tractor
curving round &
out –
I curve like that
eating samphire
as if I'm its juice
as if I'm its flesh
as if I'm crushed
into samphire green
I pause.
take breath
take in the sweep
and sway
before the next wash of
tide.
In from a wet walk in Priory woods, sat under the
cedar of Lebanon in the rain, straight rain, rain that splats commas on your
coat rain, rain that soaks fleece-lined trouser-rain, growing rain. Under a yew
tree not far from the giant cedar primroses are flowering in pale yellow
clusters. By the dog graves snowdrops pushing up shoots alongside daffodils and
graves with names of Gem, Faithful, Satan, Lucifer.
I sat on that seat for ages, staring up at the cedar,
then across to the Priory, almost lost myself in green rain, damp fertility and
offstage oyster catchers calling at low tide on the estuary. I walked on a
little way then stopped and stared at sphagnum moss growing on the branch of a
fir… its branches spread like a miniature tree. I could gaze at moss for ages;
its different greens, delicate fronds, miniature ecosystems growing on trees.
Sticky iron-ored earth: colour of young buffalo.
Of
Reeds and
Teasels
Humid, dampish walk along Bardsea beach – a day
pleasant with finches up and down, feeding on teasels and warblers on reeds.
The silky-tasselled reed heads are turning purple now.
LINKS:
Geraldine’s blog:
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