PONTEFRACT CASTLE
Sad castle, on your rocky mound,
Now ruined and decayed.
Half Yorkshire once was in your thrall
No longer. Men dismayed
Cried ‘Pomfret’ and retold the tales
Of murder, power and grisly jails.
Others rallied to the call
With pike and axe and courage all.
What cruel secrets lie beneath
These shattered fallen stones?
Whose anguish, misery and neglect
Cries from the unearthed bones
Which archaeologists display
And place in glassy tombs?
As I sit idly dreaming here
Your many ghosts glide by.
Their long gone deeds forgot by all
But still they hover nigh.
Kings, no less, were murdered here
And lowly men as well.
Now open to the rain and wind
No threat you hold, or fear.
We folk who visit here can feel
Well rid of tyrants bold,
But if your walls had stayed intact
What tourist ‘pull’ you’d hold!
PONTEFRACT WORKHOUSE
I passed it in the bus today
Its walls had tumbled down.
There were lorry loads of rubble.
They were moving it from town.
While in the street life still went on
The traffic passed it by.
The very place was leaden
Beneath a lowering sky
Of workhouse grey.
The laundry building’s standing yet
Its chimney not yet broke,
How many desperate, weary sighs
Went up it with the smoke?
With hunger pangs and raw chapped hands,
Enveloped all in steam.
Those lowly paupers toiled all day
Too tired to even dream.
And all the while surrounded by
A world of workhouse grey.
Some were shiftless, who’s to say?
Some searching hard for work,
And some were just unfortunate
They’d simply lost their way.
But never mind the reason, they all wore workhouse grey.
Victims of misfortune,
And some just not beloved.
And those poor girls
Who ‘twixt the walls
Held bastard babies
Wrapped in shawls
Of workhouse grey.
In nineteen forty eight or so
It changed its ‘status quo’,
The coming of the Health Service
Dealt it a bitter blow.
But coats of paint and décor bright
Could not erase from old folks’ sight
The shades of workhouse grey.
Workhouse, Union, Hospital.
Call it what you will,
It was a fear in all their minds
They dreaded to be ill.
To them it would always be
‘That place up on the hill’.
‘Twas coloured in their memory
In shades of workhouse grey.
When it had its face-lift
Its wards they looked quite bright,
With busy nurses bustling round
Dressed crisp in blue and white.
Its former occupants would be
Astounded at the way
The colours lightened up the place
From its former workhouse grey.
Don’t think you never would have been
Inside that cheerless hall.
Circumstances alter things
You’ve been lucky, that is all.
Fortunes go and minds derange,
Nothing’s so certain, that won’t change.
No one exists who may not fall
And find themselves behind the wall
Of workhouse grey.
Some said, “Let’s keep it up”,
Some said, “Take it away”.
I know that those old inmates would,
If they could have their way,
Be dancing on its ashes
In their garb of workhouse grey.
FRYSTON WOOD
A large majestic wood it was
And bigger, in its prime.
No hinting then of times to come
When it would all be gone.
Gamekeepers and woodsmen toiled
To keep it in good health.
Rabbits ran and poachers set
Their snares at night by stealth.
Wealthy people there would ride
And village boys did play.
Shooting parties, in their time
Contained a king one day.
Bulldozers moved, the earth was bared,
Now, where the trees held sway,
Stand council houses, shops and pubs.
That’s all you’ll see today.
When prehistoric trees fell down
They formed the seams of coal
Which, burning in those houses,
Do much to cheer the soul.
But aeons on, when we have gone,
Those homes long in decay.
When no one left remembers us.
We’ve all turned into clay.
Well, nature’s good at taking back
As every gardener knows.
And when there’s nothing left at all
Except the wind that blows.
Maybe nature then will claim
The lovely long-lost wood again.
GHOST CHILD
When wailing wind
Attacked the house
My father held me close.
Crooning in his slow soft voice
Race legends of the past.
The call went out
From chief to clan
And claymore girt
The brave men ran.
Smoke of musket
Clash of steel,
Distorted, gruesome
Highland reel.
On bright red coats
Blood flowed unseen
But vivid showed
On brown and green.
The kill crazed soldiers,
Butcher’s men
Chased the women
Down the glen.
Tortured, violated, slew
Then into houses fire threw.
If I had lived
I’d hear their screams
Forever after
In my dreams.
Where once my carefree, barefoot feet
Trod a pattern on the peat,
I ran, and where I’d happy been
Lay trembling in my brown and green.
There, as I lay
The numbness crept
Through frozen limbs
To fractured heart.
Released, yet trapped,
I hover round
This lonely desolated ground.
Alone, save for the wanton wind
Whispering …………Culloden.
BLACK BEAUTY
The gorgeous plumaged peacock
While strutting up and down.
Can only raise a cackle,
You wish he’d soon be done!
But listen to the blackbird
At dawn in early spring.
His song would break your heart in two
So sweetly does he sing.
And what about a lump of coal?
Now that, you can’t deny,
Is hard and black and brittle
Misshapen to the core.
But throw it in the fireplace
And watch the colours fly.
Orange,red and blue and green
An ancient rainbow you have seen
Down here, not in the sky.
All trapped inside that piece of coal
Dug deep from ‘neath the ground
To warm the heart and cheer the soul
And tempt you to sit round
To watch a private picture show,
All come to life in the deep glow.
Horsemen riding two by two.
Fairy castle spire.
Wondrous visions come to life
When gazing in the fire.
VICTIMS
They’re all around,
They’re anywhere.
Some have bruises
They don’t care
To show.
At desk in school
Or playing ground.
Centre of group
Or leaning shy against the wall.
These silent victims
Of distorted minds
live out their lives
In parody of childhood.
Flotsam
On a wicked sea.
ABUSE
There is no difference in the fright
Of child that shudders in the night.
Who, tense with fear is lying there
Alert to every creak of stair.
Mansion, house or council home,
Terror stalks them, every one.
There are no limits as to place
Where monsters lurk with smiling face.
Rich man’s daughter, poor man’s son.
Around them ugly webs are spun
Of misery and deceit.
Terrified. From fear made dumb.
They have no one to whom to run.
Leave a comment