HERE IS WHERE I'LL BE

It is no secret, where this road goes

So busy once with coastal flow

Is signed for all; heading north from Guide Post.

On it winds, down Bank, round bends

Where church and homes once stood

This road has carried many; in prams, on sledge, on foot.

Were some drawn to the Anglers Arms?

Or Bothal stones beyond?

More likely, is this little bridge that sits with all its charm.

Sheepwash Bridge, this resting rail

For those that journey on

Secret garden, hidden place, lies peaceful in the vale

Down the years, there’s been some fun,

Rope swings across the river,

Here couples met and families walked, to sit with duck and swan.

So to her banks we all have come

With Grans and Mams and Dads

Her weir pours over memories, always passing on.

It is no Secret what this all means

This place for not just me

Take me down to Sheepwash Bridge and here is where I’ll be.

JK Mitchell


In memory of Hazel Mitchell (Nee Coulter), 1923 - 2013

HEATON ROOTS

HEATON JUNCTION

This is where I was joined to the world,

this is where I first appeared

and took to walking

along the sun-baked pavements

on the route of the 15 bus.

I joined

with the Heaton race,

found a sense of place 

out of my mother's arms

and up Sackville Road

to Ravenswood.

Junctions rushed towards me,

engines of progress,

steam days in the 52B shed.

Magical machines

flew past me

along the quarter mile sidings

in the coaly night

as the local cats screamed

and young dogs yelped.

It was my time

to run with my youth

and someone threw me 

a book to disappear in,

something to engage

my history with,

streets lining up

for exploration;

feeding off

Chillingham Road, 

getting lost

in the Scala,

eyes swirling

with street life, 

the Whitefield Terrace colours

of another teeming Heaton day.

There I was

chucking snowballs

at trains,

skimming along rails,

falling

for girls on the ice.

We pranced together,

joined gangs of trees

in the Park,

threw ourselves

into the smoke from chimneys,

dreamed through the nights

of black locomotives,

joining us to London

and Edinburgh,

taking us out

of ourselves.

We don’t forget

those junctions

that linked us

to the wealth

of a history shimmering

in the back lanes  

and in the leaves

dancing in sunlight 

in Jesmond Dene,

running across Armstrong Bridge

to greet 

our futures. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

HEATON STATION

The trains

speed through

your memories:

the old lady waiting

with a pram,

the boy in black and white.

Days in the Heaton sun

swept aside

demolished

in the rush

to rationalise.

I was that boy,

still am,

on the platform

looking for the words

to express

true feelings

for my home;

drifting in the smoke,

spotting

derelict clouds

along First Avenue

and out of sight

into local photographs.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

NEW FROM GEOFF HOLLAND

CULLERCOATS, HALF REMEMBERED

Cullercoats, a saveloy dip

& a kiss behind Spuggie Hall.

Airwaves bristle over Marconi Point,

whispered sweet-nothings,

& a brisk north-easterly.

Old men shelter from the cold.

Simpson Street, deserted,

only the castaway wrapper

of a fish & chip supper

running with the wind.

Yesterday`s news, vinegar-soaked,

salt on a fisherman`s tongue.

Across the bay lights flicker,

shingle whistles

& the constant turn of tide.

The stench of seaweed.

A cluster of folk seek comfort

in the parlour of the Newcastle Arms,

smoke-filled & a gossip-monger`s retreat.

Somewhere down a half-forgotten lane

a dog barks.

BOARDROOM CRONIES BY G. F. PHILLIPS

There’s always an unconscious bias

around the boardroom table.

Where are the women? “You try us!”

says the pretty face out in the hall.

But more often than not for these yes men

it’s nearly always the same

their few bald heads won’t soften towards them

for it’s Julian in and not Jane.

And over the years these old cronies

have built-up their strong male fold;

they’ve leaned on each other only

all the time getting more and more old.

And it’s worked out well for these yes men

and down at their drinking club

it’s been drinks on the house not to reckon

so long as they don’t keep their stubs.

Nine tenths of the law is possession,

thirty per cent would do quite nice,

it’s not asking too much persuasion

for some women of action, their slice.

But it’s male pride they fear these yes men,

they’ve got this far and it’s well done

while Julian he thinks in the singular

it’s Jane who thinks three times in one.