Poems

The stubble field lay yellow and bare

Patches of green showing here and there,

Prepared in readiness for the plough

Which is drawn by a tractor now.

Watching the tractor moving up and down

Turning yellow fields to chestnut brown,

I pictured the scene many years ago

When Shire horses plodded to and fro.

Pulling in tandem powerful and strong

Hauling the old ploughshare along,

Their steaming sweat permeates the air

Above the noble straining pair.

The ploughman calls as he tills the land

In a voice his horses understand,

They know his touch upon the rein

When to turn and begin again.

They make such a wonderful team

Working together like a dream,

Each aware of the other's need

The good companions, man and steed.

Creaking harness all agleam

Brasses glinting in polished sheen,

Puffing and blowing as they go

Along each neatly furrowed row.

These powerful giants of the soil

Patiently plod their daily toil,

Tossing their heads in the cooling breeze

Drawing the plough with effortless ease.

Rising in clouds of black and white

Seagulls and crows in swooping flight,

Following the plough these birds still fly

Just as they did in years gone by.

Ploughshare blades so gleaming bright

Slicing the earth with a clean cut bite,

Each furrow lying straight and true

A symmetrical pattern for all to view.

The final furrow has been drawn

Across these stubble fields of corn,

Cloaked now in its autumn gown

A patchwork quilt of green and brown.

GW Skaife, Easington, Saltburn.

The Garden

There's one big reason I never like the summer.

The garden always has to be turned over and done.

I have never really been a keen gardener,

I don't think gardening's much fun.

In fact I think gardening is one big pain,

I mean to say, you cut the lawn and it grows again.

And weeds, it's always full of weeds.

The wife says get them out, get on your hands and knees.

She says the patio is covered in moss,

At times she really does get cross.

She says turn the garden over and put some plants in.

I know what I would like to bury in the garden,

But that would be a sin.

No, give me the winter time, sitting in the house in my favourite armchair

With the telly blasting away, a can in my hand,

I don't have to turn a hair.

A Bennett, Esh Winning.

The Teesdale Way

It gives me great pleasure every day,

To walk along the Teesdale Way,

Along Abbey Lane to the Pack Horse Bridge,

The abbey standing proudly on the ridge.

Along Paradise Walk beside the Tees,

The leaves gently whispering in the breeze.

Have I gone far enough? Oh what the heck,

So I step-stone over the manifold beck.

Up through the woods to Rokeby Hall,

It could be the fairest of them all.

Along the lane where the waters meet,

The running waters, soft and sweet.

On through the dales to the Whorlton Pass,

Families having picnics on the Lido grass.

Onwards ever onwards,

Though darkening skies,

But the beauty still remains

In the beholder's eyes.

Fred Wallis, Barnard Castle.

Real Love

A pilot to live by, as the distance gets longer

In periods of disaster grows stronger and stronger

Model resists invaders, the weakness never shows

So comforting, reassuring a gentle breeze blows.

Where lies the strength, the extra sparkle which makes it tick

Material things a mere token, but not a yardstick.

Real love pours from the depths of our being, measured in time

Overcomes many hardships on its way, lasts a lifetime.

Camp fire to warm upon, when it's hard to understand,

When single thoughts can't answer, the ice melts in your hand

Deep in the forest of confusion you see clearly

Puts flesh on your bones, something you treasure most dearly.

Establishes you, it welds bits and pieces together

Speaks from your mouth, but resides in our heart forever

What's given gladly received, returned with equal force

House to build a home in, a joy to complete the course.

John Neal, Chester-le-Street.

Summer's Ending

Rusting frame in summer rain;

Once holding a child's swing,

now forgotten.

Cricket ground; no one around.

No white-clad figures or the sound

of ball on bat.

Tennis courts where I was taught

to play energetic games;

now the nets are down.

Summer's ending; autumn's wending

it's way along our streets.

The days grow shorter.

Sara Newby, Darlington.

Sundays

A lawnmower is used to cut the grass,

Grass has no atomic mass,

Nuclear power is turned into electric,

Electric is what makes the lawnmower tick.

A church is for people to pray,

Prayers are for people with something to say,

For a congregation to sing as one.

To the Man upstairs - he'll see what can be done.

Washing the car is what some people do,

You never know - it could be good for you,

You start at the top and work your way down,

Soon your car will smile and not have a frown.

Gavin Docherty, South Church, Bishop Auckland.

Divorce

Life went on!

It didn't end

Reflections of our lives,

Despair!

Two people grown apart.

No love left in the heart.

We clung on,

Perhaps too long,

To something that was

Just not there.

Two people just accustomed

To what seemed to be.

You left!

And within the pain

I grew!

And began to understand

Two lives had now grown.

Friendship, not destroyed by hate.

You left before it was too late.

Marge Mason, Newton Aycliffe.

Eternity

Music ripples across the waves of the mind

And brings an inner joy and peace,

Loving memories unfold their wings

Replaced by longings which never cease.

To hold a loved one again in one's arms

And share a sunlit hour or two.

In time it will not be just a dream

But reality through and through.

Joan Tomlin, Shildon.