Northern Vowels

Northern vowels are hewn from millstone grit,

Weather well in abrasive atmospheres,


Build ugly words that’re intended to serve


Their purpose and then become nothing more


Than travesties whenever they’re converted


With southern consonants. Every one weighed


With precision in fear something extra


Might be given away; for all they are


Roughly dressed, each is chosen carefully


And slotted into place with precision,


Nothing wasted through mere casual use.


Being quarried from deep pits of silences


By short tongues with mutual histories


Of quiet co-operation, northern vowels


Tell blunt tales of this world as it is, not


Fanciful notions of how it might be.


While those who’ve convinced themselves their hearing


Is far too sophisticated to hear


Such low-pitched voices are also deaf to


Leaden base speech becoming transmuted


Through the true alchemy of poetry


Into that pure gold of a heritage


Rich enough to invest in the future,


Speaking plainly, in tongues, to everyone.


Northern vowels, flat as weathered gravestones


On which monumentalists have engraved


Stanzas as old ballads, new blank verses,


Promising, not matter how bleak the scene,


Sure and certain hope of resurrection.




                                                          Dave Alton