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Race across the sky
to threaten winter's rest,
gather and thicken
chase the morning sun.
Weighted shoulder, arm
restraining metal, hands
deep in pockets
ascending Windy Hill.

A goods waggon rusting,
retired remains rest
on stone, sides
blackened with tar
bolted and broken
where decay will
thrust the blade in
months to come.

Barks respond to the
crunch of boot on grit.
Darkened skies free rain
to sheet and sleet
drenching through to bone.
Skin numbed and raw
no shelter here.
Ewes huddle against dry stone.

Ice puddles track
across the parish.
Scorched heather, brushes
hard against the boot.
An unmarked path
in search of a
mason's hand
inscribed in stone.

Eggleston greets Marwood
a summit where sheep
will bleat in pens.
Tussocks dot the waste land,
flurries drive in
from the East.
Shoulder lightened,
metal released.

Roman capitals cut deep,
shadows respond to lens.
Lichen clings - its scaly
skin to view.
Wet clothes press spongy
turf and droppings.
Aim to shoot
the listing.

The sun is out.
A fighter pilot bolts the sky
in high pitched song,
boot on turf
boot on grit
shoulder weighted
metal armed
descending Windy Hill.

Pat Maycroft




(Photo Study by Pat Maycroft)

The Enginehouse stands in its winter,
windows black, unslated roof, strands

of beams like thin strands of hair,
the snapped off downpipe, rainwater

left to trickle down stone, unhaunted
ghost house, beautiful in its once life,

heart and work gone, an abandoned
house weathered to ruin; and slowly,

gale by gale, waves of weather strip
and pick the bones; the Enginehouse lives

through love of shape and form, poetry
at work, the obliging snow, trick of track,

bristling winter tree at a field's distance,
hedge of cobweb & eyelash; we know

this Enginehouse, this old-age, remote,
rarely visited, gaunt, yielding & unyielding,

the engine has moved out, life has moved on;
the poetry remains in stony resistance,

in sky, snow, treads, tree and stone all
silent as a moment of prayer, wishing for something

to stay and last, as even stone will level
and retreat back to earth, under landscape.

S.J. Litherland


Eyes dim, slates gone and losing hair
Once proud, now figure of disgust
She should be taken into care

She's old. She's suffered wear and tear
We know she wouldn't want a fuss
Eyes dim, slates gone and losing hair

We've always tried to do what's fair
Of course we love her but it's just
she should be taken into care

She cannot manage step or stair
Lost balance how can we trust
dim eyes, slates gone and loss of hair?

She's frozen, given to despair
She'll soon be ruin, rubble, dust
She should be taken into care

I fear she's gone beyond repair
Dried up, her engine's turned to rust
Eyes dim, slates gone and losing hair
She should be taken into care

Marilyn Longstaff


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Last updated on 14 September 2002.