COUNTY.

CEDE NULLIS.

SPIRIT.

I wonder if you’ve called at York Minster
And stood in the centre of its cross
And revelled in the glory of its windows:
The Great East, the Five Sisters, the Rose.
Or scaled its heights with your child and
Been graced by the wonder in their eyes as
They stand in the middle of the world and
Turn in three hundred and sixty slow degrees,
Then marvelled under arches and columns,
At Gothic tectonic and Chapter House art,
And listened as whispers arise from the Quire
When there’s nobody there to provide them,
And on leaving looked back at the statue of
Constantine, and remembered the moment
Forever, and known that you’ve stepped
Through the most blessed house under heaven.

MY COUNTRY.

I live next door to God
And have no need to call;
He knows where I reside
And always will.
He’s out most days
Anyway, upon the hills of
Yorkshire’s sacred skin,
Watching and waiting
For us to approach
And ask for directions.
Traveling the length
Of this tremendous land
With the rose of
Mary’s love in his
Lapel and a glint
Of pride in his eyes
At his boy’s exploits.
God lives next door to me
And as a good neighbour
Should never expects
Any more of me than I would.
I’m in most days, and am
Grateful for his ability
To find me when
Required.

TORIES.

You lead us
Where you need us,
And we follow
As always,

Though some of us
Have sussed you,
And wallow
By the doorways.

But us few
Who distrust you
Are hollowed out
In more ways,

By loved ones who
Approve you,
And swallow
All your stories.

WHAT’S HAPPENED TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD?

The Swiss are surviving,
The Norwegians too,
Whilst Iceland’s reviving
Without the EU.

But Poland is empty,
The Baltic States cleared,
As the East has been sending
Its best over here.

So who are the winners?
New Europe or old?
The countries come in from
Or those in the cold.

FEALTY.

I’m not going to have the battle
For England’s soul
Fought on my soil;
The fanatics and fascists
Facing each other across the fence
Can do it somewhere else:
Tower Hamlets or
Dagenham or some sagging
Part of Lancashire, or
Preferably on the door step of
Those southern comfort zones
That don’t have a history
Of integration;
Anywhere but my land, where
Allegiance is deeper
Than dirt.

BRITAIN’S NATIONAL PARITY.

You shouldn’t change the law
Because twelve people in a court
Found them not guilty;
They were ranting of their glory
In the depths of territory
Already tilted.

But if they stood at Speaker’s corner
On a bitter Sunday morning
Spouting hate
Then you’d be justified in finding
Them less innocent of crimes against
Debate.

PROVENDER.

I've mentioned before,
But I’ll say it again,
These morons
Would be better rounded up
And drafted,
And, after a period of intense boot camp,
Sent to replace proper troopers.
And nobody will care or call if they,
But little built,
Advance and fall;
Cannon fodder from the start.
For they have no faith,
Spirit
Or soul,
Are indifferent to others
And fear not for themselves;
The perfect disposable soldiers.

MANIFESTO.

My rose is white
Not red,
My flag is brightly
Bled,
My road is right
Not left,
My end in sight
Attests,
My absolutes
Conclude,
My own dilutes
Infused,
My aims are true
To me,
My truth
My alchemy,
My God is old
In love,
My science young
Enough,
My resting place
The Earth,
My gesture’s faith
Its worth.

THE FIRST WORLD.

So walk the Earth
And speak of peace,
And if they don’t agree
They’ll strike you dead
And what you’ve left
To say will stay unsaid;

Until the baton passes
To the people massing
Round the message cast,
Who’ll carry it, once read,
Much further than a
Former seer’s bloodshed.

MORNING SUIT.

My right hand was covered in the
Blood of others, or so I assumed,
As the sun cutting through the mist
Insisted on my well being;
Although I bleed the same as them in
Confusion, so maybe it was mine.

My left palm was stained green from
The grass beneath where it had tried
To hide me from the horror of
Above but had been refused entry
By earth; whose only shelter
Held another soldier’s corpse.

My frame and legs were left horizontal
For longer than they had been for
A while, but were unable to be
Raised or rolled away;
I thanked the Lord no tear in my
Apparel exposed my skin’s condition.

MAN MADE MINISTRY.

What is this church; so complicit
In the slaughter of ages
When we have placed
So much trust in its serenity?
God knows whose representatives
These creatures are or who’s
Divinity they seek.
Man made in the image of his
Parents should not be used
So easily by zealots at the mercy
Of armed forces seeking
Vindication; The pulpit soldier
Sweeping up the vulnerable
Should be the first over
The top or propped up against
A bullet ridden altar wall
For their service.

THE HIGHLIGHT OF OUR LIVES.

Truth nescient lies,
Awaiting for a hand to underline,
As childlike trials
Amuse it to the point of idleness,
And adult dance
Embarrasses the artist’s chance,
And slender science
Collapses for the wont of a reply,
And God’s allotted
Cannot convert a bullied thought,
And love inured
Has laboured less than it assures,
And hate yielded
Will not convince with its appeals,
And friends addressed
Have done so with no subtleness
As enemies proceed
To seek their trade with subtlety,
And Lords imbibed
With only their importance, sigh,
Whilst our lowly venture
Tempts a draughtsman’s mention.

OVERFLOW.

Why do they build hills so high at their crest
And lay water low,
Or invest their descent with a clear consciousness,
And their rising no reason to know,
Or cement edges with cold insincerity
Beyond the scope of far sight
Then tempt you to tease from them verities
That lead you astray in the night.

THE MILINER.

There were plenty of empty
Heads outside today,
And I noticed how my own hat
Stand had lost its leaves recently.
The street light reminded me it
Was time to put my work away,
As I recalled the days I used to toil
All through the night to crown them.
Time to go, to return home
And bear the weather directly;
I wish I was good enough to
Make a decent realm for myself
But the years have been and
Done their best to reveal me.

The smell of a cobbler’s
Stopped me in my tracks
As I was about to ask the
Lady with a fag in one
Hand, can in the other
And phone tucked in
The crook of her shoulder
The time. Fortunately I
Found myself before it
Was too late.

FOREBEARS.

I’ve said all there is
To be said about us,
And I’ve said it
On several occasions,
But if you cannot
Accept what’s been
Said about us,
Then you might need
A bit more persuasion:

We’re better than you,
And have been for some time,
And are better
Because we’re born here,
And if you still won’t
Concede that we’re
Better than you,
Ask your parents,
Who’ve known it for years.

LOVE ALONG THE AIRE.

I felt as though the twine that held
My organs up had snapped and
Dropped them round my guts;
All jumbled ruptures.
Those strings would play a different
Tune after that day.

There above the stone of Malham Cove,
Astride the Pennine Way,
Where nothing but the look you
Gave denied the weather’s
Touch, I found direction,
Though indirectly mine.

And that’s why men don’t fall in love these days:
They can’t endure it,
They’re ill equipped;
Unprepared to be addressed by
Words that seek confession...
She’s the only woman I ever
Wrote poetry for.

TYKE.

You who are not from this
Land listen:
When you ask if I think
I am better than you,
I’ll reply no, I don’t,
I know it,
For I’m a Yorkshireman,
And you’re not.

LIFELIKE.

Vivid brushed against my eyes
And left its imprint screened;
Saturation settled in-between my temples.

Graphic pictures without words
Explained their presence keener;
High definition really needs revising.

Images of long forgotten colour
Remembered what they were;
Mediocrity was covered there that day.

Intensity persuaded me to stay
And view my little story boards;
More lucid in my eyes than diamonds.

MADE IN ACOMB.

She was out of her wits,
And her depth,
Though she tried to survive
The regrets
That surrounded her shift
Of environs,
And the lack of a man to
Rely on.

So she took any lover
She fancied,
Regardless of whom they
Encamped with,
And had enough front to
Be candid
With anyone too
Undemanding.

And eventually she
Alighted
On a broken down soldier
Too frightened
To refuse her approval
Forthrightly,
Indirectly inviting
The frightening.

PANORAMA.

We take you from
Preoccupation
And bring to you
A broader view;
Where once your
Vision stayed
Now it’s made
To travel.
What you once
Watched, we
Did too, but
Over your
Shoulder
Not through
You, and we
Knew your
Solitude.
So see
How our love
Opens the options
Behind you,
And finds you
No longer
With yourself
To lessen.

DAWN.

Let me see
With clear eyes
The fruit of certainty
Once more grown
Solely for its
Use;
Have doubt condemned
To auction house
Events,
And wisdom freed
From the rescue home
It’s come to rest in.

Let me see
With proper eyes
The point of man recited,
And understanding
Threaded through
Our leader’s needles;
The call to arms
Announced with
Open hands,
And any tears
Inspired by a new
Recruitment drive.

ROSE-EN-SOLEIL.

Sunlight drizzled through a sheet of cloud
And stenciled summer words on winter’s ground;
Tender things in need of spring’s arrival
Sifted from their holes to read the cipher.
Unknown and nocturnal creatures stretched
And flattened out into the niches left,
Whilst hibernating animals in turn
Uncurled a limb to see what could be learned.
Dizzying and busy things flew swiftly
Towards the early flora and its gifts,
And wind and water in accordance moved
To complement the vernal interview.
The stems of solar filaments that flickered
Replaced radiator heat and candle wick,
And everywhere the weather men agreed
That by tomorrow open skies would be perceived;
For even when in mind it still suffices,
The sight of it is greater than the likeness,
And even this old cynic gets excited
When sun and earth are once more reunited.

THE NORTH.

Bold,
Warm,
Straight,
Informed;
No whippets
Down trousers
Or wallet moths;
No thick farming
Yokels or ignorant
Sloths loping about.

This is
Not the
South son,
Or its version
Of us; this is the
Real thing with dear
People whose lives will
Not be harried again for
Daring to embrace terrain
That gratefully estranges.

MY ELYSIUM.

Great swathes of the place were unmade
When I first fell from the belly,
And after crawling to my feet,
And completing speech,
And filling my mind’s breech with knowledge,
I agreed to stay and remake it.

And for the sake of balance, above all else,
I set a new foundation,
And built and sculpted halls,
And gilded golden doors,
And hung tapestries of battles fought in order
To achieve this grand estate.

And now in all its glory it arises for your view,
For its story to convey,
And spread amongst the richest,
And those besides the ditches,
And all who have born witness to the world
Without a vision of their own.

ARMISTICE DAY.

I go to the top of the hill
On the eleventh of November,
And bow my head in remembrance of every
Single person who gave their life for me;
From Jesus Christ to the last sacrificed
Upon the plains of war.

LAUGHING MATTER.

There’s Drax and Eggborough and Ferrybridge
Growing power in a row of stations arrow
Straight along the 62, following the rail links,
Well, what few remain. And they’re sitting
There because of easy access to those fields
They told us would hold coal for centuries,
And still do; only they’re unfashionable today
And full of fumes. We’re currently importing it
You know, and it’s funny how it was VAT
Free to do so before 1990, but isn’t now,
And will soon be brought from China no doubt,
Who already burn enough to block out their
Great Wall from space. It looks like our Arthur
May have been right all along when striking on.
And where has our metal gone? That stainless
British steel forged out of Sheffield and its
Boundaries; run down by commitments to a
Common foundry, where else, and sold off piece
By piece to Indians and Fins and Netherlanders,
Leaving us reliant upon Germany and Sweden
And other peoples inclined to cherish their
Resources more than us. Still we’ve got our beer
And our sheep and fertile land that’s left asleep
Each other year, and southerners who say it’s grim
Up here, though friendlier, as they buy another
Slice and complain about the prices they’ve inflated.

FELL.

I lived
Half way
Up the Pennines
To
Avoid
The rising tide,
But the
Snow upon
The tops thawed,
So
That plan
Quickly died.

LEAP.

If bravery
Has wavered
Over the years
Then be grateful
You ate from
Its table,

As slavery
Favours the
Labour of fear
And won’t wait
For debate
To enable.

SUMMER DALES, AND NIGHTS.

We arise because we are woken,
And wake only once we’ve broken
The enchantment of beloved dreams,
And time found afterwards to bear the
Implications cannot hope to compensate
For that lost earlier interpreting the themes.

Bussed into the almighty open
Spaces of the north in order for
Their warmth to have significance,
And left with the realization that here
Are the images that make our nighttime
More tolerable beyond the colder moments.

MOORED.

The track in misty
Cover was consumed,
Though barely two feet
Higher focus bloomed;

A rolling wheat field
Searching for a scythe
To garner it beneath
The shed of night,

Where whispered crystals
Powdered on the board
And dusty colours
On the ground were chalked,

And I walked firm from
Foot to sweeping foot,
Slow reaping me a
Path through evening soot,

Until I cleared the
Way along your road,
And stayed until the
Crop again was sowed.

GOD’S OWN COUNTRY.

As river is important,
And wilderness beguiles,
Then my blood allies these borders
And my body its square miles;
The history of resistance
That is layered in the land,
The keeping of the distance
And the staking of command;
The honour of being brought up
Amongst truly useful stock,
The need to keep a sword up
To protect them from attack.

The church may change its maker,
And its sponsor breakaway,
But it’s earned my undertaking
To defend it from bad faith,
And though the area is greater
Than more populated states,
I will spread my self like water
In defence should they dilate.
For if not for soil and solitude,
And keeping sure the truth,
Then what of our interlude
If failed the dreams of youth.

LIKE CRICKET.

It’s no good making an eye catching shot,
And getting caught;
You’ve got to be in it for the long run,
And not default.

One hit wonders don’t work in the middle,
And belittle
The rest of the performance,
And make you liable.

A hastily made assignation will not suffice
At the crease;
You’ve got to plan carefully
To succeed.

An impulsive pull without noticing the field,
And how it feels
From your opposite’s position,
Will leave you reeling.

And finally finishing as fast as you tend to
Will end it;
You’ve got to pace your innings in
Order to defend it.

NEW YORKSHIRE.

To the left a dejected old rival,
Up above only wilderness trills,
To the right enemies are all tidal,
And below is an ignorant quilt.

Deeper still are the bowels of London,
But we’ve nothing to fear from there,
And across the old channel their under
The weight of old socialist prayers.

And over the compass’s spectrum
We’re battered as we pass around,
Until, with relief, we detect home,
And settle our wings on the ground,

For it seems that we’ve beaten our daemons,
Whilst the rest of the world battles on,
But up closer you’ll see that we’re breeding
Fanatical morons with bombs.