A blustery meander through Cark & Flookburgh, with poetic form
Friday 13th January
After a lot of heavy rain, high winds and some questions from some of the group about whether we would be able to weather the weather, we set off wandering.
The gathering of lovely people was: Annette, Dave, Hazel, Hilary, Jane, Jeni, Mark, Sr Margaret, Steve & Sanjive.
Our route meandered through Cark, past the Engine Inn and down the back lane towards Holker Farm to look at the local allotment spaces and another growing space nearby. We then doubled back to the side of the Engine Inn and wandered the length of Caton Lane. At the end we turned left onto Main Street and down to the centre of Flookburgh where we turned left until we found ourselves outside Brookes Cafe - well why not!
We talked about:
- Mark gave us lots of insights into the local allotments and growers around the Cark area, including his own allotment space
- We spotted an overgrown allotment and heard of the gentleman who had tended it so carefully over the years, sharing his harvest with the local community so generously, and of his relative who now looks after the space. We wondered if we could offer a spark of help - to share our energy toiling the land to carefully clear and prepare the ground as a one-off - a shared task that would get our small group working the land together for someone else. Helping us to spark deeper conversations and bring stronger connections and making someone else's daunting task a little easier.
- Having a Jacobs join meal together, using elements of the participatory practice session that Jeni & Annette attended together before Xmas - Jeni & Annette are going to plan this soon for a Feb event.
- Visiting a local growing space (JE)
POEMS
The message I sent a few days before was: If anyone wants to bring a poem, or snippet of info about food and growing, or a recipe to share then please do. Sadly we didn't have chance to share everything (with apologies to those we missed):
Everything On It
I asked for a hot dog
with everything on it,
And that was my big mistake,
‘Cause it came with a parrot,
a bee with a bonnet,
a wristwatch, a wrench, and a rake.
It came with a goldfish,
a flag, and a fiddle,
a frog and a front porch swing,
a mouse in a mask-
that’s the last time I ask
for a hot dog with everything.
In the beginning he was so sweet to me
Sadly after a while he gave me the pip
In the end he ran out of juice and I had to squash him
Then I pulverized his flesh to a pulp
Cheers!
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
nay word zealot, lament
let not natures rich landscape weaken
strike thy tight held view
succour children
bring hope; conker & newt
to plea: back-fill
re-enrich our feeble breast
Jeni McConnell, 2015
Before six o’clock it is their kingdom, each
A singing centre, a lord of its own.
Humanity asleep is sidelined; I
Irrelevant, alert, alone,
In khaki slow-paced silence, fearing to break
Their dawnlight assurance of early May.
The blackbirds carol, from peak of every tree,
The song thrush chants his doubled lay.
The tiny avian king - troglodytes twice -
His song huge as his heart, bursts out
From a hedge. A roe-calf pauses to check my intent,
Then ambles on, sans care, sans doubt.
A chiffchaff is playing an ostinato, while
The cuckoo chimes his singsong clock
Each second all the hour. A hobby scythes.
A greenfinch trills. A sparrow-flock
Feeds chattering at ease. My reverent step
Unsettles just one heron into flight
Of awkward elegance. The lake’s surface
Shimmers serene as morning light.
Blows across his bottle-tops;
A tern, so close I glimpsed her black-tipped bill,
A flash of grace, she flips and drops.
An explosion of Cetti’s shakes the reeds. ‘Perhaps,’
It hints, ‘It’s time to return to base.’
The hour of magic is draining away, the world
Of humans wakes. A change of pace.
En route, the breakfast-gang of rooks is rowdy.
(‘No parties,’ warned the B&B.)
It’s after six. The morning’s first alarm:
The blackbirds sense humanity.
‘Egrets and cabbage whites,’ declared the blurb.
Should I - who saw no butterfly -
Demand a refund? Absit! In this, their realm,
No quota, limits, price, apply.
In the dawnlight kingdom all is gift and praise,
Which from and to their Giver flow.
Could we the day-shift run as grace, not greed?
What magical hours might sing and grow?
with grateful thanks to Szabolcs Kókay for the illustrations (https://kokay.hu) and to Fen Drayton RSPB reserve.