Local poems

Looking back recently through the poems that I've written over the last couple of years, I was struck by how many have a local history theme. Iris Lewis, who lives in Kempsford and who was a fellow writer when I was with the Somewhere Else group, has a similar affinity with the background to our local Gloucestershire landscape and I'm delighted that she has agreed to share some of her poetry in this week's blog. Thank you, Iris!

The Place by the Ford of the Great Marsh

The hiss of Saxon spears.

The Hwicce conquered.

A weed-tangled boy.

The red rose drowned.

Sweat-slippery axes.

A canal is dug.

Vapour trails…

Red Arrows fly.

In the distance

The church bell tolls.

Iris reading at the Cheltenham Literature Festival 2015

Under new management

Moored like ships beneath the sign

the skips are full of cargo.

Battered tables, broken chairs thrown

higgledy-piggledy in the hold,

jostling with threadbare cushions and

beer-stained carpets loosely rolled.

Only the sign remains.

Twelve painted bells, solid black on white,

sway gently in the breeze, while in the distance

church bells chime, twelve notes rippling

across the Cotswold town.

A new sign, fresh painted, hangs there now.

Bluebells, dainty, nodding, on a buttermilk board.

A patch of springtime meadow suspended

above the tarmacked road.

But winter comes, and with it, fog and frost.

Across the rooftops church bells toll.

A chill wind blows, the pub sign rocks

and creaking, keens for something lost.

Seven Hundred Years of Grief Ago

Water reives a son. An heir is drowned,

lies in Kempsford’s marshy ground.

The House of Lancaster bereaved.

A grief-spurred gallop, a horse shoe lost,

retrieved and nailed upon the stout church door.

It still hangs there, a hoof-shaped heart

framed by a Norman arch.

A good luck symbol charged with sorrow.

Grief pulses in this old stone porch

Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Founded in Anglo-Saxon times Kempsford's original name was Kynesmeresford, meaning the place by the ford of the great marsh. My poem The Place by the Ford of the Great Marsh encapsulates the history of the village, starting in 800AD with the battle between neighbouring Anglo-Saxon tribes, the Hwicce and the Wiltsaetas. Then, in medieval times, Kempsford was held by the House of Lancaster. The ‘weed-entangled boy’ refers to the accidental drowning of the young heir to the Earl of Lancaster, a story which I explore further in Seven Hundred Years of Grief Ago. Although a predominantly agricultural village, the great canal-building era of the industrial revolution brought the Thames-Severn canal right through Kempsford. In modern times our small village next to RAF Fairford is transformed for a week in July when we host the Royal International Air Tattoo, at which the Red Arrows always provide a star turn.

A constant presence in Kempsford is its medieval church. Nailed to the door is a horseshoe, reputed to have hung there since the early fourteenth century. Seven Hundred Years of Grief Ago recounts the historical event associated with this. This poem was chosen to feature as one of the poetry postcards as part of the Swindon Festival of Poetry 2015. Beautifully illustrated by the artist Valerie Gibbons it may be seen at http://poetryswindonpostcards.blogspot.co.uk/#! along with all the other poetry postcards.

Cirencester also has a fine medieval church with a ring of twelve bells. In the past it was common for pub names to reflect the number of bells in the local church belfry. Cirencester is no exception and it has a pub called the Twelve Bells. Until fairly recently the pub sign featured twelve church bells. But as part of a general refurbishment the pub sign now shows bluebells rather than church bells. This seemingly insignificant event seemed to symbolise loss and change, which are common themes in my work and led to the poem Under New Management.

Iris Lewis