SPRINGTIME

Winter's nearly over,

The coalman doesn't call

The milkman whistles up the path

The paper boys don't fall.

The binmen, they look happy

As they take away the bags.

Even taking gloves off

To make their rolled-up fags.

The electric man, he smiles

As I open up the door.

"Lovely morning, madam,

Looks like spring once more."

The postman still looks wary As he walks up to the gate

But no, the dog's not snarling

Not filled with cuss and hate.

The sunshine's working wonders

With everyone I meet

I'm seeing people smiling

Up and down the street.

Caroline Alderson, Killenby, Darlington

SPRING SONG

Spring is here,

winter's long cold blast does not belong.

The blossoming trees

sprinkle the lush green lawn.

All woodlands are an

explosion of colour and sweet song.

Bright bluebells line the meandering paths

And squirrels awake from their

treetop habitats.

Out in the meadows,

the cows will be seen

And lambs will be frisking

all fluffy and clean.

In sparkling rivers,

the trout will rise

From the deep where they have

been safe from the fly.

The gleaming yellow gorse

on the hillside

And the bright blue of the sky

All make it so good

to be alive.

So get out in the open

air and enjoy the view

Before spring goes

into summer. Then nothing will be new.

Elizabeth Sayers, Spennymoor

SPRING

The birds are singing melodies

As sweet as sweet can be,

And the trees are full of blossom

God's beauty just for me.

All nature's bursting out

As if full of praise,

For truly these are

The very best of days.

For there's nothing that

Can quite compare,

No loveliness so vibrant

Or so fair.

As the countryside in May,

But sadly, it will pass away.

Unlike the love of God

Which forevermore will stay.

But when we enter heaven's gate

On that glorious day

There'll be eternal beauty

That will never fade away.

Elizabeth Tomlinson, Richmond,

North Yorkshire

CHILDHOOD IN CONSETT

When I was young I loved to go to school,

I met a boy who used to play the fool,

He used to annoy the teacher, got the cane,

He once made for me a paper aeroplane.

He always made me laugh,

just like a clown,

After school he used to go

all round the town,

With his horse and cart,

selling firewood, crisps and pop,

He was always active, always on the hop.

We flew our paper aeroplanes in the street,

We played for hours in the sunshine, snow and sleet.

We set our fireworks off on Guy Fawkes' night,

Our bonfire set the telegraph pole alight.

Those were the days when folks had nowt to spend,

They came round the doors, " Hello, hev ye got owt to lend?"

Begging for cigarettes, sugar, tea and jam, Others made a living pushing newspapers round in a pram.

We played football and cricket,

we were the backstreet kids,

Coats for goalposts,

wickets were old bin lids.

We swam in the river that flows

where the bluebells grow,

We wore rubber wellies

to trudge through Consett snow.

Now we are glued to the television screen,

The streets are filled with cars, the air unclean,

The world is still gripped by poverty, greed and war,

Yet still we can walk by the sea on the sunlit shore.

Rev John Stephenson, Sunderland

BROWN BEAR

Brown bear with water

On his back, see him lingering

Balanced precariously on grassy verge

Muscles taut, ready to surge

Into the waters, icy cold

Claws thrashing, grasping to get hold

Of a suckeye, to ease the pain

Of days of hunger in Alaskan rain.

Months are warm and living is good

With a belly full of food.

All too soon the summer's tune

Is danced away on winter's moon

Now he must sleep

the sleep of death

Till he is wakened on spring's sweet breath.

Denis Ferguson, Chester-le-Street

MY BEST FRIEND

I had a dog called Emma.

She was my best friend.

We roamed the dales together

From Stanhope to Hill End.

She'd wander through the heather

On a rabbit's trail,

But when she came across one,

She was slower than a snail.

Although she was a labrador,

She didn't like the sound

Of fireworks or gunfire

And quickly went to ground.

We didn't need a timepiece

For teatime, walk or bed,

She only looked into my eyes

To say "stir yourself Fred".

She loved to see the family

And make a lot of fuss,

But that was only natural

As she was one of us.

Fred Mangles, Crook

REDUNDANT

Watch them, out walking, gaunt and grey

or, backsides on benches, looking lost:

Men, past their prime; now in the way;

Doddering down to death;

counting the cost

Of reaching retirement age: passé

And wonder, will that be me one day?

Ken Orton, Ferryhill Station, Co Durham