English counties show a frozen glimpse Of population, Of where we lived, a long time since, At the dawn of our English nation. Cathedrals too, and the larger abbeys, Hint at a bustling past – Wells and Ripon weren’t so shabby, But boom-times couldn’t last.
Huntingdon, you once were free, With Somerton and Appleby – But people change, and trade moves on, To Milton Keynes or Basildon.
Political constituencies Can’t stand still too long, Without some boarder-fluencies To keep their numbers strong. Postcode districts are a modern score To count the blur – If they survive a thousand more, They’ll show where once we were.
Stevenage, you’re earned your key, With Swindon and Southend-on-Sea. But people change, and drift away To who-knows-where and come-what-may.
Strange, the oldest folk tunes have no authors known, They’ve just been sung like that forever. I wonder if a single soul created them, Or many voices altogether. Maybe over centuries, they’ve slowly grown, Adding new words to old songs, From bawdy balladry, through cherished hymn, To terrace singalongs.
From London Bridge to Scarborough Fair, Ride a cock horse to the old grey mare, Lady Greensleeves, mistress mine, And over the hills for auld lang syne. We’ll never know, we’re never told – They are too old and we’re too young – Yet still their songs are sung.
Strange, the newest pop tunes come with artist names – We know just who created each. Yet maybe in a thousand years, a few persist Whose origins are out of reach. Carols may be sung to them, or children’s’ games, Or earworms and lullabyes – With half the words forgotten, and their meaning missed, But hanging on in diff’rent guise.
From Ground Control to Billie Jean, Go Johnny, go, come on Eileen. All the lonely yesterday – Sing for tomorrow, we fade to grey. They’ll never know, the trail is cold – We are too old and still of tongue – Yet still our songs are sung.
Hoards of coins in shallow graves, Unlawful death of wealth – An inquest must be called To let the gold announce itself. The coroner shall ascertain The trove’s identity, And whether misadventure Caused its current liberty. Was it witness to a conflict ? Was it lost or laid to rest ? Do we need an autopsy To open up its chest ? It seems at odds with all their other tasks, It must be said – But it surely makes a pleasant change From dealing in the dead.
An A and an E, glued together, But why ? So how are we meant to say it, this guy ? Best leave it alone for Danish and Latin – Round here, we don’t need our A’s to fatten. Save ligatures for when we’re putting a sign up – Though why do the crossbars never quite line up ? All-in-all, it feels so confused And æsthetically ugly – oh, that’s where it’s used !
I asked her what was the tartan she wore, She smiled and told me Smith. I’d never considered that Clan before, But fair enough – the Smiths of yore, The Sassenachs of Aviemore, The flints in the monolith – The common Clan for the ev’ryman, The hammers and tongs of myth.
She asked the tartan in which I deck, Buchanan, perhaps, or Brodie, or Beck ? I smiled, and told her Burberry Check.
It seems that the Gaelic word for smith is the origin of the Clan McGowan, but that even before surnames arose in the Highlands, some Scots had Anglisised their profession to ‘smith’.
Recreations of Hadrian’s Wall and The Great Wall, by artists alas unknown.
Brick for Brick
I grew up with castles and churches and manors, Their architecture feels like home – While Indian temples and Chinese pagodas Were glorious aliens in stone. It all made sense that Kublai Khan Had not one dome in his Pleasure Dome
But when I saw the Great Ming Wall, It all felt too familiar – It looked like something the Romans might have built, Had they reached this far Rounded arches, crenellations, arrow loops – All quite bizarre.
The only telltale signs were in the watchtowers, And their roofs – Simple saddelbacks, slightly concave, They were hard-hill-hatted booths. Not like the four-square hips of the Romans – Projections providing proofs.
Except…on many of the towers we see, These structures are robbed away. And we’re left with familiarity That’s out-of-place, astray. Was it built-up piecemeal, really ? At this point, who can say ?
From what I can see in images, the watchtowers had roofs that were a mix of hard-hill and hanging-hill, the difference being that the latter had slightly overhanging eaves as in the image below.
detail from Saint Peter in front of his eponymous basilica in the Vatican, sculpted by Adamo Tadolini
Mistress Blacklock
Throughout the gothic city-states, Secure with many doors and gates, The greatest craftsmen in the land Were those who crafted locks – Protecting life and property Behind the password of a key – And yet, with just a twist of hand It frees our hearths and stocks.
Thus, whereupon the plague is rife, The locals dread their very life, And conjured up a chatelaine To rattle in the night – A mistress dark and grimly tall With sturdy boots and sweeping shawl, And ring-bound keys upon a chain To lock the dead up tight.
Never in a hurry, she, Yet striding on determinedly – She visits those who’s fever runs As fast as runs their sands. No lock can bar her solemn deeds, For she has just the key she needs To reach all lovers, reach all sons – Where’er the fever lands.
The doors unlock, and slowly swing Upon the rogue and saint and king, And in she stalks with silent ease, And stoppable by none. She takes the ring about her waist And cycles, never in a haste, Through all her heavy iron keys To find the very one.
And that she lifts and points toward Her victim, all the rest ignored And presses to his chest her shaft That bloodless passes through. The fingers of her left discern The bow upon the shank, and turn As smoothly as the masters’ craft, Their workings, firm and true.
Her right she offers to he held By him, that fear may be dispelled – They say her bony, steady hands Are warmer than you’d think. And so his latches spring apart To free his soul and stop his heart – Her key withdraws from out his glands With just the faintest clink.
And with that, speaking not a word, And with no other neighbour stirred, The plague has been about its chores With not a jam or jolt. As through the busy, ailing towns She goes about her nightly rounds, Of dousing lights and shutting doors And drawing home the bolt.
Rhyming Couplets 