River Park Poems

In August 2021 a group of Poets held a picnic in the park

&

were inspired to create these poems

Some are based on the past and others reflect the present

skylarks dance above

the river park reclaiming

the air with their song

Kemal Houghton

Flashback

Paul Beech

(1) August 2021, a bright Tuesday afternoon on Merseyside

The cormorant hewn from a tree stump is poised to dive, but its gaze is lost on the poets hurrying by, notebooks in hand.

Ahead, a guide waits to take them on a tour of the river park, with its rich flora and fauna, and stunning views of Liverpool up the estuary.

Maybe later they’ll jot a note or two about the old abandoned dock below, where goldfinches skim the glittering tide.

beneath the gazebo

we rewild words

(2) October 1940, a dour Tuesday afternoon on Merseyside

Yes, a dull afternoon it is, but about to be disturbed…

You hear the drone of a twin-engined aircraft approaching from the south-east. And there it is. A lone bomber, the balkenkreuz on its fuselage, a swastika on its tailfin. It’s an enemy bomber. A Junkers Ju88 at around 1200 feet. The time is 4pm.

Ack-Ack! A gun opening up, shells bursting around the bomber. The pilot and his crew have been tasked with destroying a Merseyside factory producing planes for the RAF. And that’s just what they’ll do.

Or will they? Fighters are screaming in from the north now. RAF Hurricanes. Three of them. Piloted by Czechs. Yellow Section.

The bomber climbs for cloud cover but the Hurricanes follow.

rat-a-tat-a-tat… Machine guns. Yellow 3 attacking, now Yellow 2.

The bomber’s upper gunner firing back. rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat… Yellow 2 again, now Yellow 1 attacking from below.

The German pilot attempts to jettison his bombs in the Mersey. But the mechanism is mashed, and only two of the four bombs fall free.

Billowing smoke from the bomber’s starboard engine. And the observer, seated next to the pilot, dead, a bullet through his head.

The bomber is going down.

800 feet, 400, 200. rat-a-tat-a-tat… Yellow 2 attacking again, bomber firing back. All Hurricanes hit.

3 feet only… the bomber’s rear gunner smashes his gondola free and falls with it.

Crash-landing now, the Ju88 skids on its belly, losing its port engine and one of its bombs before grinding to a halt.

They’re in a field at Bromborough Dock. The time is 4:15pm.

The 250kg bomb lies near the aircraft, the rear gunner some distance behind. He has bullet wounds, broken legs and goodness knows what other injuries.

The pilot and wireless operator, having scrambled from the cockpit, go to the aid of their comrade.

But it’s all over. The military take charge.

The rear gunner will spend many months in hospital.

And the dead observer will be buried with full military honours in a local village churchyard.

vapour trails fade…

we grieve for the brave

lost in war

Foreshore (1976)

Kemal Houghton

The raggedness of this untidy shore

which reeks of oil and squelching, slimy mud,

to some would seem aged industry’s cracked whore

whose death awaits as slowly drains her blood.


Yet here I’ll pick my way amidst the dregs

to wonder at what life may still remain;

the scavengers who never have to beg

since life and death are mingled here – the same.


It is the wasteland where the waisted go,

the place where children fill their feet with cack;

defiant, new life still adjusts and grows

in places where it’s always thought to lack.


Now marsh grass creeps across these banks of mud;

Cold death could never steal this old shore’s blood.

River Park

Judith Railton

Light good candles

Float them out of Bromborough Pool

on a high snakeskin tide

Past nesting skylarks

Knapweed purple crowns

Blackened vetch pods


High berries plucked

through risky nettles

As I bite, a tang

Crush heady purple juice


Call the porpoises

Call the salmon

Sing to them of regeneration

of hope, of blue butterflies

The Capstan

Judith Railton

The capstan glares

‘Do not pass this way.

I stand firm

Held fast a thousand ships

Salt spray, pah!

No retreat before any surge tide


I remember your great-grandfather

Sailed away

Lost in a far storm

On Christmas Day

Now your hand rests

Where his once lay


You people of the Mersey Shore

You come and go

I see you all

And still stand firm '

River

Ann Simm


The River a conduit

A living larder

Curlew digs deep to fly home


The River curves south from source

Then changes its course

At the oil sites and flows north


To the open estuary

Of the Irish Sea

Past the heroic city


Of put together skyline

The eras’ riches

On full frontal exhibit


The River makes sense of us

Baptised to gull chant

By trill of meadow pipit


Rippling with trade of the past

What stories are held?

What tales trapped in its mudflats?

Reflection at River Park, Port Sunlight 10th August 2021

Judy Ugonna

In the here and now

on this Third Rock,

I bask in the benison

of a soft Northern sun

watching a wide river rippling.


Inside … I am amazed!

The magic of those first atoms!

The moment beyond time

when hydrogen met oxygen,


when vapour became ice and rain,

when lakes and rivers, and oceans

first covered this iron rock!


In the here and now,

I myself mostly water

along with all the other creatures

of this rock,


look out over waters here,

stand on meadows

and among trees

gifted by water and sunlight,


knowing they will give us

again and again

today’s blessings

Pen to Paper Port Sunlight River Park/ Bromborough Dock

Maureen Weldon

I see them writing lying on the grass in the sunshine – poets.


Our host Kemal takes us on a guided tour of his steep hill

manmade with no shade this day.


We look down on The River Mersey, “It’s coming in, the tide, he says,

I know by the nautical stick. Do you see its wake?”


Liverpool Bay, its ships its cranes its Liver Birds, Cathedrals…

As we stand on this high rewilding hill,


our host says, “See beneath us, that building, Prices Patent Candle Factory

and nearby dock where ships unloaded cargos of Palm Oil.


He tells us, when the wind blew, the smell

from the candle factory and nearby Tannery was neigh unbearable.


Now we join the poets, chat and enjoy a Poetry Picnic.

Landfill

Chrissie Youngman

Under this ground

Voices echo from the past

Surrounded by plastic, within layers of plastic

Plastic covering plastic

A memory – my child

To remind you of your history

When everything we had was made of plastic.


Today as the blowing grasses

And billions of wild flowers brush against our feet

We see only God’s creation;

The crown of his glory covering our creation

Of plastic, trapped beneath a mighty dome

Of plastic.


The gentle Teasel and Lady’s Bedstraw

Belie the truth

That far below a dead world lives.

Not the underground metropolis of worms,

Or even our loved one’s bones.

No, the dead world of vapours

Oozes and seeps in methane gas

Far underneath our feet.


Not the lifegiving ooze of mud

Under deep water

Or even silt, sticky from the river,

But hard man made obsolete towers.

Useless towers of plastic

Unable to collapse, and

Unable to claim membership

Of the great life force.


Somehow man attempted creation

And the monster lies buried in methane

(Dead and buried – my child)

Sometimes when the great monster below

Breathes deeply

The methane is let out

We say “in a controlled manner.”


Perhaps it’s time to forget our blundering creative frenzies

Before we blow ourselves up.

Let’s sit on a bench under the billowing sky

Catching sight of some mountains

Superior to the plastic ones we make ourselves.

Look – quickly – there in the river

A porpoise – look, just there!

And another – joining us for the afternoon.

No Cats

Chrissie Youngman

I have just been somewhere

I’ve never been before

Where there are no cats.

A particular and peculiar reclaimed place

With no shiny eyes,

No fluffy tails,

No digging in the flower beds,

Or dead birds.

I saw no cats, not even one.


But there were birds……

Curlews, with their long beaks deep in the mud,

Oyster Catchers breaking into limpets,

And I was informed,

Officially informed, of the presence Of his eminence

The Short-eared Owl.


Skylarks were in full song above their nests

And the nests – what madness

Their nests are on the ground!

Obviously they, the skylarks,

Have never heard of cats – bless ‘em.

Slack Tide Below the Fever Hospital

Chrissie Youngman

The river is full – but

Is it flowing up river, or to the sea?

Does the water register the presence

Of all the creatures passing through?

Are the cries of these creatures orchestrated

In the song of the waves?


Do wild flowers, the clouds and waving grasses

Sing together?

Maybe they do.

Do they hear our cries, as we hear music

In the wind and waves?


Every sound might have been registered

Around the river bank

Below the Fever Hospital,

Or in the Fever Boats

Lying with the dying in the river.

Water, waves and the cries of birds

Embracing the dying,

Holding their hearts in the wind.


United just beforehand

In that terrible moment of slack tide