All Saddleworth was plagued by boggarts in those days. Such beings stumbled by like woolsacks. And they were wide as a lane and their eyes were blazing dinner plates and they were constantly likely to emit hot winds. The country people are frightened to death said Ammon Wrigley, folklorist. Or they were, until that … Continue reading ‘The Very End of Old Delph Will’ by Jean Atkin
Tag: Jean Atkin
Three poems by Jean Atkin
Not there, nearly This cream blackthorn warm of morning is the hour to be patching the cattle trailer with squint squares of corrugated tin and new rivets. The air is lamb-bleat soft. Away up the lane go steady hoofbeats, clip of iron to stone, the horse-pace laid in layers over the land. A tawny owl … Continue reading Three poems by Jean Atkin
‘A Brock Geology’ by Jean Atkin
A Brock Geology Night falls & ......................................................fills the dingle with badgers badgers pressing grasses.........................................................to bent curves they feed & drink ......................................................& play, they trail their piebald noses low .....................................................to flow of brook & deep below, taste all the cold .................................................then warming rocks red iron beneath their ...............................................................paws & pads they follow glint of mica ..........................................................in their … Continue reading ‘A Brock Geology’ by Jean Atkin
‘Lost and Found at the Palacio de Peña’ by Jean Atkin
Lost and Found at the Palacio de Peña A golden dome and battlements bulge out of mist. February: the stucco sweats with moss. We ‘re all alone in a cloudy court on wet-shined chequered tiles. Tangled small rooms are crammed with chairs and dusty letters, pen nibs and little mirrors. Later, by a cracked glass … Continue reading ‘Lost and Found at the Palacio de Peña’ by Jean Atkin
Poetry in Horses
The Night Horses are stalled between sleep and dreaming. In the steading they lower their massive heads to the earth’s nod. In darkness white-faced Clydesdales lip at nothing. Below a halo of bats they rest their load of feather and bone and horn. They hear, don’t hear, the scrape of shoes, as a gelding shunts … Continue reading Poetry in Horses
‘George Aiken’s Map, 1846’ by Jean Atkin
George Aiken’s Map, 1846 As if these paper islands were crumpled in a ball and crushed and hurled into backlit rain and rolled before a filthy wind - she wrings the sheet and smoothes it with strong palms, as if next she’d iron these wet and whalebacked hills - as if a capsized gale … Continue reading ‘George Aiken’s Map, 1846’ by Jean Atkin
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