: Lucy Newlyn, from Ginnel
Mouths bloodied purple, fingers antennae
trembling for the touch of hidden fruit –
foragers scouring the hinterland,
eyes skinned for dark swell of berry.
Our days are long, and battle-scarred
with brambling. Brummels lade our nights;
all our tomorrows are a hooked tunnel
of bummelkites. We move hungrily
among edges, hunting for certainties:
scavengers off a darkened street,
in the sacred lore of blackberries.
We love beck-sides, and derelict places
where branches scramble out of sight –
behind nettles, under hawthorns, sidling
through bracken. We are long-armed
with reaching for the woody stems
that clamber at an immense height.
But most of all we love the brambles
arching spindly over walls in ginnels –
stray offerings from untidy ends of gardens,
bending with plump black weight.
Lucy Newlyn, from Ginnel
Develops the jaw,
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.
Where’s it from?
Take a bite.
Has it been washed?
I can’t see a label!
I don’t know its country of origin!
Don’t make such a fuss.
I just want to know,
It’s not every day I taste forbidden fruit.
It’s not every day you’re offered it.
I hope this isn’t the start of a new diet
Who knows what it might lead to.
Ah well, what have we got to lose?
Brian Wilks, 2011
: Nicholas Bradley, Autumn 2004
Now evening, I’m out
on the allotment putting back on
the hat of a child’s scarecrow
for the show tomorrow.
I am the curator, the unseen
hand in the rain.. I’m singing
a Fool’s song from King Lear
when you appear, saying:
come and look at this one.
And you know, I don’t know how,
that Art is
slipped in, with its pure poem
arm at that angle,
Help The Aged bag.
You have to make a stand.
Nicholas Bradley, Autumn 2004