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Monday 23 October 2017

For My Grandfather, by Peter Shilston,

I never knew him,
he died when I was five,
but I have his watch and chain;
silver, made by a local firm 
in Keighley, where he lived his entire life,
inscribed 
"Presented to Thomas Midgley
on his 21st birthday
Oct. 25th 1903".

He was, I'm told
a man of the highest moral standards;
he disapproved of pubs
and scruffy dress;
he played the piccolo in the town orchestra,
he had a windup gramophone
and some good books
(Dickens, Walter Scott, Dumas).
He was an early member of the
Independent Labour Party,
he knew Philip Snowden,
the first-ever Labour Chancellor,
and he read the "Daily Herald"
the Trades Union paper 
(now defunct).

His wife, my grandmother, was
a mill-worker, very houseproud,
and a vegetarian (unusual in those days).
Before getting married they
saved up for years
in order to buy good furniture.

He would have described himself as
proud to be
working-class, 
Yorkshire, 
and respectable.
Do people like him exist today?

I found a recent picture of his house
(terraced, outside loo, near the railway).
It looked sadly run-down.

The watch runs erratically.
Nowadays it would be valued
solely by its bullion content.


Thursday 5 October 2017

Ladies of the Wood, by Georgia Kelly

Two oaks lie in a collapsed embrace,
Shrouded by inconspicuously
By creeping claws of ivy;
Seared limbs line bruised bodies
 resting, peaceful,
on their bed of moss.
Amber confetti dampens
Ablaze. A blur.
Over mirrored
Hips.  Lips.

Take me to your woods
Where buds bloom at our touch,
Where dew melts like ice
On warm tongues;
Wher our song plays soft at first.
Not seven inches of
Dull notes, blaring
To bands of woozy teens,
Drunk on the hopes of
Holy matrimony.

Here the trees play
Only for us. A birds song
 interjected with every
pulsing breath.
Coiling,
Twisting,
Into a torrent;
Teasing. Until it
Slices open our
Goosebumped skin.
Revealing only our

Beating. Bleeding hearts.