As part of the Talkwrite Literature Festival, held at the Brindley Arts Centre in Runcorn, I was voted Halton Poet of the Year for 2008.
I submitted four poems one of which, Blue Plaque, had to be about Halton.
For those not familiar with the area, Halton is the combined name for the Cheshire towns of Runcorn and Widnes which sit either side of the River Mersey, joined by the iconic green arch of the Runcorn-Widnes bridge.
Use the following links to read the poems:
Blue Plaque ; We Lay Together ; Verity ; From Within Lines Framed By Grey
Click here to return to the menu page
Where are they going to put my blue plaque?
Can they put 52 Greenway Road back?
That was down in old Runcorn,
the town where I was born.
When people come to see
the birthplace of the author, me,
when they want to congregate
at the site of my birth-date,
it’ll be a shame to disappoint
tourists from Weston Point,
or to present just a blank
to exotic travellers from West Bank
as they stand there and witness
the slip road to Widnes.
Perhaps they’ll be something, who knows when?
When they re-design the town, once again.
Or they’ll make a magnet for your fridge,
me before the Runcorn-Widnes bridge.
But for now you might find me
one Friday a month at the Brindley,
working towards that day
when I’m celebrated for a great play.
When someone looks at my works, likes them all
and says, ‘Let’s stick a blue plaque on his wall,’
well, where are they going to put that blue plaque?
They’ll have to put 52 Greenway Road back.
We lay together in the field
exposed and vulnerable
to the air and nature,
limbs entwined
still partially in the embrace
in which we’d struggled in our passion.
We lay still now
in the aftermath
as beside us lay,
still warm,
the weapons we had used
to end it all on this battlefield
Verity is the spice of my life
Sometimes hot, sometimes mild
Sometimes better the next morning
Once she was exotic
And now, though familiar
I’ll always want more of her
From Within Lines Framed By Grey
From within lines framed by grey,
the same blue, un-dulled, looks out
on lithe youth, as ever did,
but receives now kindly smiles,
not matched desire,
from ones who see limbs moving stiffly
and not the inner beating
seeking another’s rhythm to match,
or the desire inspired each bright dawn
which hopes a glance might see within
and recognise the ageing façade,
like any garment worn by experience’s weathering,
is nothing more than what awaits them
when their still unquiet desire
will look from within lines framed by grey.