Back in November, we asked our readers to submit a poem with the theme being “A Little Bit of Stone”. This wasn’t for poems about us, but about your particular Stone and these are the submissions we received.
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The Story of a Canal Town by Liz Mills
Where are they now, the people of the cut?
Gower and Anson, calling for Brindley,
The unknown navvies who heaved and dug.
Where are they now, the men of the boats?
Potts the builder and Shardlow the carpenter,
Hudson the painter with their narrow creations.
Where are they now, the waterways men?
Smith the lock keeper and Bagot the toll clerk,
Moorcroft the smithy and all of the rest.
Where are they now, the families who toiled?
The Clarks on the beer run and Sprosons with coal.
Passing the bottle kilns on their way to the Star.
Still they live on, in the spirit of the Fullers,
the walkers and runners, the cruisers and musers.
Long may they continue in our canal town of Stone.
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Mountford’s – by John Mills
(A cornucopia of this and that)
It is a man’s world
not of testosterone but of mystery.
The walls ooze an air of cosy familiarity in
stark contrast to the clinical orderliness of
axe, drill, mattock and saws that,
like all good man,
reciprocate.
Worn with age a bent wood chair,
that no one can recall being sat on,
sits patiently by the counter
behind which, amongst the
jubilee clips and taps and dies,
a smile has taken residence.
“A dozen one and a quarter crosshead tens, please”
draws an instant response and
a knowing finger taps the side of a nose
acknowledging a request for half inch sixes,
“Missus wants more shelves, does she?”
These sorcerers divine your house from your ironmongery.
Flustered by the embarrassment of ignorance
a young mother, sent by her husband no doubt,
buys a, “one of these,” for threepence and
scurries of to the comfort of Costa.
Keys are cut,
wisdom and drain unblocker dispensed,
Stoke’s frailties discussed,
parliament hinges provoke debate over
the relative strengths of
flush, butt and butterfly and
the joys of astro-turf celebrated
in this Pandora’s box of
turpentine, roof-felt and rat poison.
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HOME – by Michelle Webster
In the morning I wake up at home, in a town I’m proud of called Stone.
We start our journey to school, Pirehill. Where my daughter has learned many a skill!
I make my way to Austin and Roe, where my property knowledge has grew to what I know.
Where colleagues become friends and the love never ends.
At lunch I take a walk to the high street, where I always see someone I go and greet!
Love to pre love
Is where I’ll pop
And grab a bargain, I love to shop!
Always Gills bakery for a pie, it’s a Friday I’ll cry!
And when alls said and done. To the canal we’ll walk, and have a good talk..
About our day, we’ll have plenty to say!
The swan’s they will walk and have a good squawk!
We see many a boat, and wrap up in our coat.
My daughter I hope you know.
How much I love you so
and in this town you will grow.
We head back to our flat in stone.
The place we call ‘HOME’.
Xxxxxx
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The Ballad of Wulfad and Rufin – by Liz Mills
Your father, a difficult man
Had made a pact with your mother.
A gentle Christian:
she could teach girl children her ways,
but any sons must grow like him;
strong, brave, fortified by old gods.
Werburgh’s marriage was arranged
when you met Chad, the holy man
who spoke of other ways to live,
loving neighbours, saved by God’s son.
You worshipped secretly until
Wulfhere heard how you’d betrayed him.
His fury knew no bounds; you were no sons of his.
He called upon the old gods
and chased you both to your deaths.
Your poor sister and mother grieved,
built cairns of stones to mark the spot
where your father had destroyed love.
Brave Werburgh became a nun,
left to live far away, an abbess like your mother.
Your father tore his robes, asked Chad to help
amend his sins. A man of proud mind
and insatiable will, so it was said,
his kingdom’s now gone but your story lives on.
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The Grassy Patch at Aston Lodge – by Joe Stripp.
Just a small bit of Stone is the “grassy patch”
but for bio-diversity it is hard to match;
Its rough grass provides a welcome home
for many creatures, some unknown.
Its brambles are a place of refuge
for hedgehogs and birds, during many a deluge;
Its hedgerows provide a place to nest,
positioned where the birds know best.
Moths and butterflies frequent the plot,
the crickets and grasshoppers are harder to spot;
Beetles and other bugs can be seen in the bogs
of the lower ground, and also frogs.
Many wildflowers, and a few thorn trees
ensure a visit from many bees;
Toadstools and mushrooms soon disappear,
after providing some autumn cheer.
People walking alone or with dog
appreciate what has been a hard slog,
to keep the developers away from this place,
at least for the short term it is still open space.
We must protect our open spaces
for our children in future to give them places,
where they can enjoy for years to come
the fruits of our success, hard won.
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Cut in Stone – by John Mills
Cutting its way through the hard graft of towns;
forging links with chain makers and potters
colliers, farriers, brewers and baker,
the canal eases between factory and port.
Horses, low slung beasts, that hefted butty
and narrowboat are memories, sweat and muscle
swapped for the new romance of the offbeat
beat and smell of the diesel engine.
There are castles and roses, bushes of brambles,
moorings and fisherman, mallards and swans.
Young couples, lazy, meander the towpath
and the old sit on benches remembering when.
The canal harbours no grudges and nudges
the countryside’s comfort into the town.
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The maker of these wonders no one will ever know – by CC Brookes
To hear the birds singing in the early morning dew,
To gaze up at the sky so clear so fresh so blue,
To watch the animals grazing in the valley down below,
The maker of these wonders no one will ever know,
To gaze into the hedge grows where it’s wonders never cease,
To lie here in the meadow in tranquility and peace,
To see the tiny creatures in the meadow grass so green
To wonder where their going
To wonder where they’ve been
To hear the he birds singing in the early morning dew
To gaze up at the sky so clear so fresh do blue
To watch the animals grazing in the valley down below
The maker of these wonders no one will ever know
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Thanks to all those who submitted entries, we will look to run another feature in early 2022!
