From the Tyneside Poets' Archives

WESTGATE CEMETERY


('Let me be writ down as one who loved Mankind')




This Elysian field,
a small plateau above the dusty road,
harbours no peaceful haven. The monuments
vie with each other in shrill voices
over the family burial grounds, petty
dynasties unrealized, immortal memories ephemeral.


It is the mortal side here emphasised,
there is no ground richer in humus.
Arched trees form living parasols,
reminders of sunny days and Indian summers,
the grass knee high
and all the sound of day lost in the flora.


In a generation or two
when the memorials have lapsed
into ivied lethargy, this will be
a peaceful place in the afternoon.
But, for the present, we cannot
contain our contempt for this sham.


The vaults are opened,
monuments kicked down,
Molly and Ginger have left their signature
on one sturdier stone.
The dumped bedsteads and old clothes
let them know


just what we think of dead old fogies.
Every age piles up its follies,
this is one of theirs.
Time will be kind to them, that has not
patience nor period to prevent us
hallmarking their fools' gold as our own.






David Stevenson








Border Reivers




These moors were the favour they wore,
dissolved into mists that moistened
the leather harness. A feuded
sun rose over valleys and low
settlements that they descended
on to take cattle and plunder.


Their incorrigible surnames cared less
for the Laws of Court, than a life
lived hand to mouth, where the spur
served up out of a bare larder
sufficed. Flaunting the warden’s wrath
goaded them onto his gibbet.


Later they lay in the heather
without change. The pasture enclosed
on the dissolution of bones
that trickled along the cut turf,
where strange marauders made inroads
unchallenged, displacing their homes.






George Charlton





Spuggies




Uv erl the bords that flit aboot
ah like the spuggies best;
They hev nee bonnie feathors,
They build an erful nest.


They fight along the gutter’s edge,
They make love i’ the street;
Thor voice is jist a cross atween
A chirrup an’ a tweet.


They eat the seeds the gard’nor sows,
They pinch the farmor’s corn;
Th’ore chatterbox an scatterbrain
The varry day th’ore born.


Below that cheeky little face,
Ahint them beady eyes,
Ye’d sweer they wore erl Satan’s sons
I’ feathery disguise.


For them thore’s nowt ti recommend
That Ah can put i’ words;
But – please forgi’e them if you can, -
Th’ore canny little bords.






Robert Allen