MORE FROM THE POETRY NORTH EAST ARCHIVE

ALL SAINTS




Prickly grass
perilous edge to the street below
                            and tiny people.
All bones beneath me;
                            ghosts and memories.


Summer days when the
                           rich met
Sunday mornings; church steps.
The sweep to the Tyne
                           (blood in our veins)
The dome of the circle
                            and rounded pews.


Pink tinged sky for vespers
As carraiges roll by
                            down to the quay.


Deep the bones buried.










Dorothy Neil






STATIONS


I was the middle of the town,
Up line or down
They gathered round,
Shopkeeper, newsboy, knowing best
Where served their human interest.
Less central by far,
Library, Church or Cinema
Claiming their special congregation,
But thy came and left from the
Railway Station.


Build me then of monumental stuff,
Only the best is good enough,
Wrought iron, brass, teak and stone,
For I am middle of your town,
Robing with rich and noble feature,
All your arrival and departure,
Your fond greeting and sad farewell,
Like the son who left for Passchendale.
And here his mother stood,
For only at this place
Could they ever meet again
Or else in heaven.








Tom Hadaway