Hatherleigh.net - Local Poets //-->
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Poets of Hatherleigh

This is a selection of poems have been written by the people of Hatherleigh the majority of them having over the years been reproduced in the Pump.

HATHERLEIGH CARNIVAL

When all peoples' spirits are high
We will remember
The floats going by
Five AM, the tar barrels do their first run
Everyone is there
Having lots if fun
They all stand and stare
Eleven AM, the hunt is coming
Watch out for the hounds
The horses are amazing
Hang on, what's that sound ?
Two PM, here comes the band
Look at all the walking guys
Prince & Princess hand-in-hand
The people watch them go by.
Two-thirty PM, they all arrive
The Queen and her attendants
The judges wonder if they'll survive
The judging of the contestants
Six PM, in the market
The judging has begun
Drivers ask where to park it
I wonder who has won ?
Seven-thirty PM, they all start to go
Money being thrown
Childrens' faces aglow
Instruments being blown
Eight-thirty, the tar barrels do their last run
Everyone is sad
But we know they've had fun
And it's back next year I'm glad
Lucy Wonnacott

 

 

Hope

Poverty crowds the matted ground,
Tears flow without a sound,
Children scream, sick in need.
No one comes because of colour or creed.
Scared eyes as the gun shots fly,
Destroying the setting sky.
Children dying lost in hunger,
Can't cease to survive much longer.
Babies held tight to mother's breast
Nowhere else to rest.
Many killed for one man's fight
Burned houses demolished by night
Sudden desperation and father's grope,
The only thing left is hope.
By Shivani Price (when aged 10)

Divided
also printed in the "Save The Children Magazine"

On two dusty streets or paths
Two children walk on different halves
One is black, and one is white
Both travel on though the night
One is dark, one is fair
Neither of them are ever there
One is lost, one if found
Both feet fastened to the ground
One is hurt, one is fine
Both divided, an invisible line
One moves and crosses sides
Both forget about allusional divides
On two dusty streets or paths
Two children walk, on the same half.
By Shivani Price
MEMORIES
Far away in a place not known,
was a house on a hill, my home.
In a town so small and quiet,
with a river running through it.
Farmers out at the crack of dawn,
Like the early bird on the lawn.
The smell of woodfires fills the air,
as newborn lambs play with no care.
Movement begins in the house,
the cat brings home a little mouse.
Cows come in to be milked,
walking on grass, just like silk.
They trundle on, as slow as ever,
at this rate it would take forever.
The milks soon ready to be collected,
by the tanker that's been directed.
Time for the dog to go for a walk,
passing old ladies who stand and talk,
about the gossip that's going around.
I think it's time to go to town.
Past the cottages, all white and thatched,
past the fields and a football match.
Through a wood and over a bridge,
right down to the river's edge.
To a market that's up and ready,
bringing in cattle slow and steady.
In pens they are put to be sold,
huddled close, maybe they're cold.
Chickens clucking, sheep are bleating,
the hammer goes to start the selling.
Around the market on my own,
back up a hill, to a house, MY HOME .
By Carolyn Farley

 

Foot and Mouth Spring 2001

During the spring of 2001 teh community was devistated by the destruction of much livestock due to the presence of Foot and Mouth disease in the area.


SPRING 2001
Where are the feet of the lambs? I thought we should see them still
In the clay of the gateway wide, where we drove them down from the hill.
There was rain and sleet as we hurried down- there was no time to cry
But the young ewes trotted proudly and called their first-born by.
I walked with my cat up the hill tonight: alone with the pale spring sky
The willow buds were turquoise, but oak leaves still tight furled.
He stood on my feet as we stared around the greening empty world.
Is it only a month since the young ewes called as we brought them down to die?
The cold wind carries the song of birds or of distant ghostly sheep
He raises his head to touch my hand- oh now is the time to weep.
Patricia Lindsay
Silent Spring March 2001 Hatherleigh
As far as the eye can see stretch fields bereft of their woolly pregnant flocks, grazing in expectation of bringing forth their spring-time, life-full lambs.
Their lives snuffed out by vicious virus or compulsory cull,
And milking cows taken by this disease, regardless of pedigree.
This languid, lush, landscape, home for centuries to those who lived by husbandry,
wiped clean of moving, breathing creatures - all but the scavenging crows.
Smoke from funeral pyres hangs on the misty air, adding to the mood of gloom.
The Town, well used to shared joy and sorrow, sleeps now,
void of market and needless gatherings and awaits future re-awakening.
But daffodils and primroses with their eternal beauty herald Spring
and birds sing, though the bleats of young lambs are few and far between.
New life will come again after the sadness and grief of farmers and their families - so close to all the death and desolation -
Their livelihoods wiped out, but not the life-force, which with support, must and will survive if rural England is to maintain its unique character and beauty, for which so many lived and died,
and once again 'sheep may safely graze'.
By Pat Abell

FOOT AND MOUTH
The smiles have gone from Hatherleigh Town and all that surrounds.
For centuries these lush lands have been nurtured by men, not clowns.
Is someone trying to wind it down?
What really did go wrong with our market town?
Knighted by a famous King he must have known the strength within
It will rise again with love and care by gentle keepers there.
Other parts of our glorious land are also in deep despair,
"Will it be our turn now?"
The moor is silent, pyers blaze to blacken the sky with their murky haze.
It is now spring, life reborn, the birds are singing with the dawn.
Not all things have gone so terribly wrong.
Name withheld by request

FOOT AND MOUTH May 2001

The smiles have gone from Hatherleigh Town and all that surrounds.
For centuries these lush lands have been nurtured by men, not clowns.
Is someone trying to wind it down?
What really did go wrong with our market town?
Knighted by a famous King he must have known the strength within
It will rise again with love and care by gentle keepers there.
Other parts of our glorious land are also in deep despair,
"Will it be our turn now?"
The moor is silent, pyers blaze to blacken the sky with their murky haze.
It is now spring, life reborn, the birds are singing with the dawn.
Not all things have gone so terribly wrong.

Silent Spring March 2001 Hatherleigh May 2001
As far as the eye can see stretch fields bereft of their woolly pregnant flocks, grazing in expectation of bringing forth their spring-time, life-full lambs.
Their lives snuffed out by vicious virus or compulsory cull,
And milking cows taken by this disease, regardless of pedigree.
This languid, lush, landscape, home for centuries to those who lived by husbandry,
wiped clean of moving, breathing creatures - all but the scavenging crows.
Smoke from funeral pyres hangs on the misty air, adding to the mood of gloom.
The Town, well used to shared joy and sorrow, sleeps now,
void of market and needless gatherings and awaits future re-awakening.
But daffodils and primroses with their eternal beauty herald Spring
and birds sing, though the bleats of young lambs are few and far between.
New life will come again after the sadness and grief of farmers and their families - so close to all the death and desolation -
Their livelihoods wiped out, but not the life-force, which with support, must and will survive if rural England is to maintain its unique character and beauty, for which so many lived and died,
and once again 'sheep may safely graze'.

By Pat Abell

HATHERLEIGH MOOR
Why do birds still sing
Where no ewes call
Why do birds still sing
Not knowing our pain
Why do birds still sing
Where men are mute
Why do birds still sing
For life will come again
By J.C.H.

   
   
   
   
   

 


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