I'm very pleased to have the opportunity to post a poem by local poet, Copland Smith. Copland, like so many other people in Chorlton, values our Meadows and often gains inspiration for his poetry there. I suspect that the recent intrusion of the Metrolink tram system into our precious green space, and the ominous precedent that it sets for further destruction, may have prompted the poem below.

April VIII The Village Minstrel

after John Clare

There once were gardens, like the one I had,

Where weeds and brambles scrambled, foxes slept,

And blackbird fought with dunnock over bread,

And foxglove grew and Johnswort. Foxes pupped

In wilderness that I so roughly kept,

As sparrows filled the hawthorn with their cries.

Now there is lawn, that nothing may corrupt.

Now all is silence as the birdsong dies,

Where once were hedgerows full of butterflies.

There once were wren and redbreast by the lane,

But motorways were widened. All that’s gone.

They’re laying tracks to carry city trains;

Where once was song, their tuneless engines drone.

And tarmac spreads where grass and sedge were growing;

Out of once rich meadows, buildings rise.

Once, the larks were singing, lapwing dancing.

Now all is silence as the birdsong dies,

Where once were hedgerows full of butterflies.

Copland Smith, 2012

 I note that Copland cites John Clare as an influence on this poem. He tells me that he has actually borrowed one of Clare's rhyming schemes for its composition.

John Clare (1793 - 1864) was born the son of a farm labourer. His home village of Helpston is just a few miles north of Peterborough  (actually, my home town). He was a prolific and inspired poet. As a young man he experienced a relatively brief period of fame before the London literary set dropped him and he sank into obscurity - and, eventually, into madness. Nevertheless, his poetry has endured. Because so much of his verse was inspired by nature and the natural world - particularly the countryside around Helpston - it would not be too inaccurate to describe him as "the Patron Saint" of the English countryside. During his lifetime he had to endure watching vast tracts of that countryside being destroyed by the enclosure movement and his grief and rage at that desecration forms a dark undercurrent in many of his poems.

Sadly, in the early 21st century, we still have to watch treasured places being destroyed in the name of 'progress'.

Perhaps it's time we woke up to the fact that if it's not truly sustainable, it's not progressive! 

Dave Bishop, April 2012

    

Mary's Towpath Eco-Verses

Here’s hopeful follow-up to my last piece on springtime massacres. Last Sunday FoCM Secretary, Richard Gardner and I went on a 10 mile sponsored walk for Cheshire Wildlife Trust. The walk was along part of the Sandstone Trail near Beeston.
At one point on our walk we noted that all of the Cow Parsley beside the Trail had been pointlessly sprayed with herbicide and this started a discussion on the, all too prevalent, ‘brutalist’ approach to landscape management. One of our fellow walkers, a lady named Mary Thorp, told me that, a few years ago she was distressed to see that the plant life along the towpath of her favourite canal-side walk, by the Shropshire Canal, near Tarporley, was regularly being cut down in the spring, before any of the plants had a chance to flower. Her novel approach to this problem was to write a poem about it and send it to her local paper, the Chester Chronicle – who published it. This is Mary’s poem:

Canal Towpath Plants

I walk on the towpath almost each day
Enjoying the plants in their seasons
Like Brian Bailey, this poem’s to say
Don’t mow them down without reasons

There’s fleabane and hawkweed near Wharton’s Lock,
Butterbur, meadowsweet too,
Monkey flower, balsam, coltsfoot and dock
Also Iris to name but a few

Where mowers don’t go, from bridge one-one-three west,
There are vetches and cowslips galore.
But due to your cutting down much of the rest
Many flowers are blooming no more.

For most of the towpath is 4 metres wide,
To walk on you need less than one.
Let vegetation grow free either side,
It’s less work when all’s said and done.

The flowers to flourish must first set their seed.
They can’t reproduce if they’re mown.
Allow them that little more time that they need
To germinate seed that is sown.

The waterfowl also like banks that are high,
The mallard, the moorhens and coot.
Whether we cycle, we boat, fish or fly.
You can help in our leisure pursuit.

And Mary’s poem seems to have worked. She tells me that that they now only mow one mower width of towpath and leave the rest wild. So, well done Mary! Perhaps we need more such ‘eco-verses’ to persuade all of the various ‘licensed eco-vandals’ not to massacre wildlife in the spring.
The picture at the top of the page shows a glorious population of Water Violets (Hottonia palustris) growing in a ditch managed by the Cheshire Wildlife Trust. If only other organisations were so careful about looking after and valuing the natural environment.

Dave Bishop, May 2009

Strolling and Story Telling - An Entertainment for Chorlton Arts Festival

As part of Chorlton Arts Festival, Ingrid Burney and I will be leading a walk on Chorlton Ees. Ingrid will be telling stories connected with our Meadows and I will be pointing out plants and other wildlife of interest. You may remember Ingrid's spooky tale, 'Mersey Mystery' which was posted on this blog on 13th September 2008.

Date: Sunday 17th May

Time: 3:00pm

Meeting Place: Ivy Green Car Park (on Brookburn Road opposite the Bowling Green Pub).

The event should last about one and a half hours.

Hope to see you there!

Dave Bishop, April 2009

September by Roger Barnes

Here's a poem from local poet, Roger Barnes. Roger tells me that he derives much inspiration from the Meadows. We share a common interest in the Valley's plant life and we often phone each other with news of new finds.




This poem is from Roger's first collection, 'Some Seasonal Sonnets' (2007).

September

First fieldfares fly in to find their winter room
pickings a plenty tumbling round the town
fresh fallen apples tempting rosy bloom
one bite and spit and quickly throw it down!

hops high lanterns hanging in their hundreds
where the new green berried bryony grows
hedges hips and haws yellow orange reds
golden rod plumes and Michaelmas daisy shows

mosquitoes and gnats knit days end in dance
thermal thousands throng translucent light
crane flies take their tentative tremulous chance
crows cavort commune with flashy flight

So much manna this mellowing month contains

September salad days are here again!

copyright R.H. Barnes, 27th Sept 2006

Mersey Mystery by Ingrid Burney

And now for something completely different (as they say!). Chorlton resident, Ingrid Burney tells us of an eery encounter that she had recently on the river bank.
Be warned! After reading this you will probably have to sleep with the light on tonight ...

Mersey Mystery

[as told at ‘Chorlton Telling Tales’ Storyclub}

It happened last year, last Autumn to be exact. My friend Amy and I had arranged to meet up for a walk by the River Mersey, my favourite local walk. If you don’t know it, it’s about an hour’s walk, starting off through Chorlton Meadows, a nature reserve, and then following the Mersey round, crossing over two bridges to get back to The Meadows and home. By one of the bridges you find a pub, ‘Jackson’s Boat’, and that is where we planned to stop for a bit, walking back before it got dark.

Even though it turned out to be a drizzly, overcast day we decided to go ahead. After all (as seasoned Mancunian walkers) we were well prepared, with waterproofs and boots. However we soon realised that this was not just surface drizzle. This was the kind of drizzle that creeps, surreptitiously, sneakily, into your very skin. Since we were walking with hoods down (after all, how else can you talk properly?) it wasn’t long before our hair and faces were dripping wet. But it didn’t matter. We were engrossed, catching up, putting the world to rights. The ducks and geese by the river didn’t mind the weather either. The cyclists who silently crept up behind us, expecting us to leap out of the way for them, looked as impassive as usual. The runners, their faces concentrated, or contorted (in agony or ecstasy?) seemed unaffected. The dogs were enjoying themselves, as usual, together with their jovial owners. We were about the only people just walking, walking, talking, talking.

And that’s why we didn’t notice. Not until he was right in front of us. And then …he was gorgeous! Tall, dark, handsome and …a smile. To drown in. Dark, sleek hair, luminous skin, immaculate sports gear and trainers …and the smile. But, for me, he was too gorgeous, too handsome – but then, I’ve always distrusted perfect looking men. But even without looking, I knew how Amy felt. You know how it is, when you see someone, and every cell in your body does a somersault before settling down, not quite like before. Well, that was Amy. Instantly smitten. She smiled a smile that was so wide it stretched until it met itself at the back of her neck, as they say. And so it started. She talked and talked, smiled and smiled. He talked and smiled that smile. She talked and smiled and talked and smiled. He talked and smiled.

And I knew it was coming. Maybe before she did. She turned to me and asked,’ Ingrid, do you mind if he comes to the pub with us? ’Well, I was a gooseberry, I knew it. But I was going to be a gracious gooseberry.
So I replied, graciously, ‘Of course, it would be great’. Then I looked at him. I mean, really, really looked at him. And my blood ran cold. I hoped he hadn’t seen. I averted my eyes and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

So, thinking quickly I said, ‘But Amy, I really need to talk to you about something. Would it be ok if we go on ahead and he joins us, say, in about 15 minutes?’ She looked at me, in a ‘What are you playing at?’ sort of way, but shrugged her shoulders, and answered,
‘Yes, I suppose so …if it’s that important’. But she wasn’t happy and it showed. So she explained the situation to her friend, who smiled, and we made sure he knew where the pub was and whereabouts he would find us – Amy was very explicit. Then we turned away – us towards ‘Jackson’s Boat’, him to wander up-river a bit, along the path, to join us in a bit. So we smiled, and hugged and parted.

We’d barely turned round when she grabbed my arm and hissed,’ Ingrid, what was that all about?’
‘Didn’t you see?’ I hissed back. ‘Didn’t you notice?’
‘What was there to notice? He’s gorgeous’
‘He wasn’t wet. There wasn’t a drop of water on him or his clothes.’
We looked at each other. Rats tails of hair. Water dripping down our faces and clothes. Muddy boots.

Then, simultaneously, we turned round, to look at the man.
But of course, he wasn’t there.
We looked along the whole length of the path along the river. He wasn’t there.
The grass on the high bank on the other side of the path showed no sign of anyone having walked through it, and besides, even Superman couldn’t have climbed up in that time.
We looked along the path again, and saw our footprints in the mud.
Our two sets of footprints.
Only two sets of footprints.
Then Amy went pale.

We went to the pub, and we had a drink, and waited, but of course he didn’t show. I wasn’t surprised and I don’t think Amy was either. We chatted about this and that but not about what was really on our minds. Not then. We left early and got home well before dark.

Now, I’m happy to walk along this part of the Mersey in daylight anytime. But maybe, in future, I’ll be wary when I walk on October 31, Samhain (or Hallowe’en), because, this gorgeous man with the wonderful smile, if he wasn’t a ghost, what was he?

Copyright : Ingrid Burney 2008