Working in t' Mill

Reading and researching into the woolen textile industry in Aireborough , and the history or Aireborough, West Riding of Yorkshire, and people who lived there at the moment. Looking for information on William, Jonathan, Caleb and Joseph Peate I came across this

http://www.cs.arizona.edu/patterns/weaving/periodicals/tm3_12.pdf

I think somewhere there is a one line reference to Jonathan Peate, but the rest of the journal is fascinating as a peek into a corner of world social and industrial history.

Coastal Erosion

Where I am currently living is about as far from the sea that it is possible to get in the UK. Well maybe not quite that far, but certainly equidistant from East and West coast and North and South just does not come into it. In fact, given a map of mainland Britain (England Wales and Scotland), I live about as near the centre as the eye can judge. It is a very controversial subject, the exact geographical centre of Britain- so many 'what abouts', 'counting this, counting thats' , define centre exactly, so I don't even know why I mentioned it at all really. The point being that since going to the Isle of Wight and Pompey and back to childhood memories of afternoons spent by the seaside, I had not realised how much I miss the sea. Probably like everything else I had just pushed it all away because there was nothing I could do to change circumstances of where I had washed up. You just accept the way things are and get on with it, because that is how it is.

Suddenly, with all that has been happening over the last two or three months though , it has become do-able. I mean, it always was do-able, but the motivation to get on and do it arrived suddenly one day like an exotic weed blooming in the cabbage patch. The decision can and has been taken to sell up and move. Not only that, but the actual broad location of where to move to in order to tick the emotional and practical boxes has been made. What remains is the research into an area that I have never previously been to and know very little about.

Actually I am , and always have been useless at geography. Geology fascinates me but I am broadly ignorant about it beyond the basic general knowledge. The area I am intending to move to is a very geographically and geologically relevent area, as it is a place which is rapidly disappearing into the sea. The Holderness coastline is the most rapidly eroding coastline in Europe- up to 3 metres a year. So to buy a house in what used to be called something -or- other- by- the- Sea could well become in the lifetime of my retirement project, Something-or-Other-In -the-Sea. No wonder the property is cheap- no wonder you get your dream house for your money and change as well, but judge it just right and as old age and infirmity catch up, at least the distance to walk to the beach will decrease accordingly.

There is something incredibly romantic, to me, about lost villages. Hotels are forever dropping over cliffs- one in which my brother worked for a while on the Isle of Wight slid into the sea one dark and stormy night. Fortunately he wasn't in it at the time. That's sort of a bit of passing interest, but somehow the thought of a church disappearing and tumbling down into the briny is sort of apocalyptic. The more I have read into this, and coastal erosion and the shifting outline of this island fortress is becoming something of an obsession at the moment, the more churches I see that have gone kerplunk. I imagine Stephen King's Langiloos, or invisible mouths biting chunks out of the clifftop roads and paths, eating and munching away at the substance of civilisation itself. Well maybe not quite, but the odd caravan site and pill box and coast road anyway.

Of course, I now know that the Yorkshire Wolds were creating in the ice ages by glacial action and chalk rockbeds laid down, and the Holderness coast line form Flamborough Head down to Spurn Point is made up of till which is being washed away systematically and has been for millions of years. It is the way of things, although the accelerartion of the process in teh 20th and 21st century is probably down to man made rather than natural factors. Interestingly enough, man's attempts to rectify and to protect the coast (and property thereon) tend to result in a right cock up. At Mappleton for example, were they have built groynes to trap the longshire drift so that the sediment and sand acan build up to form a protective beach for the waves to break on rather than attacking the soft clay of the cliffs and undermining them. It worked, for Mappleton. Unfortunately , South of Mappleton the problem became even worse and the beaches narrower and the erosion greater because, well Mappleton had bagged all the sand and it could be deposited further down.

For full explanation see HERE

So why on earth do I want to live somewhere that is likely to be buffeted by coastal storms and that I may have difficulty getting insurance on , that I can stress out every time there is a high tide? Even if it is my dream house in my dream plot, what on earth is possessing me to take this sort of risk with money and with well being and mental stability?

I don't know. Maybe I am sick of being sensible. Maybe I see it as a metaphor for the last quarter of my life. What actually is the point in playing safe and investing wisely, when one can felt the salt sting on one's cheeks and feel the stirring fear and exhilaration of the edge of the cliff at a time of life when it doesn't really matter any more?

Well, I know that when my friends and family find out what I am doing there is going to be an equivalent storm, and the waves of disapproval and plain hostility will tower high above me. I don't care. He will care, because he does think of the opinion of others- or maybe he thinks of their feelings more than I do. They will tell me how I am throwing everything I have worked for away for it to drop over a cliff, and that I will lose money 'investing' in a house on a clifftop. (or actually a mile or so away from it, but they won't see it that way because they have no imagination) He can't wait though. He is bubbling with anticipation. He likes being between the wolf and the abyss, although he wouldn't admit it. Know what? I think I do too, although I would never have guessed.

Isle of Wight Seascapes

Bombers' Moon

Some images from the Wings and Wheels event at Elvington Air Field May 8-10th 2009

Bird

Took this photo today while waiting at traffic lights in Leeds- obviously it had to be taken quickly before the lights changed, so didn't have much time to zoom in.

NaPoMo week 1

PART ONE
The Apprentice


0-The Fool at the rising

at the rising

you sit half cross-legged
pluck a desultory mandolin
the wind chases mist
in the reeds
carries the notes
across rat bitten allotments
the sun rises at my back
it is time to begin
my bundle is light
my feet, confident, skip
the cliff path
never miss a step


don't look down
don't look down
and you won't see the harpies
zig zagging the abyss
they brushed
your shoulder yesterday
pushed you into tomorrow
the dog barked them away
showed them the black
of his inner lips
curled his tongue
rapturously
around morning ragas

chrysanthemums flame
against an astrakhan sky
above the city called Pandemonium
the spires float, dream
of white clouds
while at their base bodies
squirm in filthy gutters
spit on their hands
and grin and bare
yellow teeth

I, The Fool, carry the lily
faithfully back to you
keep it safe from
marauding griffons
bees visit
trade their wisdom
for yellow dust
thirsty, I sip
from the golden cup
tired, I lay me down
and sleep in haystacks


at journey's end I lean
against the gates of dawn
place the flower
in your hair.


******************************
1-Snake Oil



In the time of the sickness
I left you spreadeagled
under the scarecrow on the hill
shaved smooth naked
androgynous
wrapped in shadow and red flannel
a spell scratched
on the erogenous side of your arm


the Dream Seller posed
at the stage door
Vaudeville matinee idol
hand on hip
eyed up the crowd
of admirers
played them like a fakir
with a dozen cobras to charm
he waved his silver topped cane
at the stars
threw coins stamped
with lemniscates
into the gutter, the urchins
kicked and squabbled
mesmerised, I caught
the silver cigarette case
he tossed to me.


in the pit
the snakes writhed
in figures of eight
weaving a cloth of lies
in perpetual motion
for fire eaters
and sword swallowers


What shall we be
tomorrow and tomorrow?
the ouroboros encircles
our world

I brought you back a magnolia flower chalice
brimmed with lost innocence
pentacles
and snake oil
by way
of a cure.

****************************

3-The Oracle Unlove

Proserpine sprawled on a throne
of earwiggy railway sleepers
piled haphazardly
propped up her feet
on the spoked crescent moon
of a half buried bogey wheel
willow herb and bramble
screened the black hole
at her back
where the ghosts
condemned to dig
in perpetuam
disembowel hell

pro umquam quod umquam
amen

They closed the mine down
after the accident
lovers carved initials
of immortality on the pillars
of the trilithon
at the shaft entrance
Capitalists painted
No Trespassing
By Law
on the lintel
Danger Keep Out
(of Hades)
By Order of the Parish Council
and sundry concerned bodies.

i unknotted my spotted hanky
spread my treasures
on the ground
before her
pawed at her pomegranate
stained petticoats
that stank of worms
and begged for wisdom
and a quick fix
of experience.


she refused my pennies
but showed me her knickers
and said to return
when I was old enough
to know unlove.

.

You play Chopin
on the upright pianoforte
in the parlour
lost
in the cascade of notes
tumbling
towards the stream of unconsciousness


******************************

4-Auntie Frigg's Emporium

A Shakespearian morning
lungs belt joy
across a lusty dale
the traveller with Spring
and green enough to spare
rests upon a crooked stile
to admire the patchwork fields.

Auntie Frigg takes down the shutters
shakes out her apron
sets out baskets, brooms and lanterns
lamp oil, dolly tubs
and a canary
(yellow) in a cage; marbles, mallets
iron fire dogs, anything you'd ever want
and a million things you never
thought you would. She
places her chair (windsor wheel back)
in a sun patch on the cobbles
plonks down fleshy arse
with legs akimbo
sparks up a Capstan (full strength)
waits for passing trade.

Unaware, the traveller
succumbs to temptation
browses the cornucopia
of her wares
there is no escape
he must buy his way out
of her jealous embrace.








I brought you a bowl
of lustrous glass
golden as the evening sun
a carnival of rococo colour
you stack it high
plums, peaches, figs
pomegranates, melons
persimmon
I lick juice from your lips
slowly.

********************************


5- Blind Jack

At the sign of the Bush and Pole
the traveller drinks relief
finds knowledge
in the bottom of a jug of ale


he has learned
already
the empty chair
close by the fire
with the view
of the whole
establishment
is not for him
instead he waits
on a rocky barstool
feels all eyes
upon him sideways


towards dusk Blind Jack
assumes his throne
tankard and trencher
to hand, surveys
this corner of his fiefdom
accepts his tributes
gives his orders
hands out wages
to day labourers

the itinerant searcher
of self-knowledge
begs audience
of the blind man
who sees all
for the price
of a quart of wine
and a purse of flattery.








the willow dips fresh
whips into the stream
you roll up your trousers
pluck crayfish from the stony bed
I spread my blanket
upon the wild orchids
and laugh at your delight
in your pauper's lobster.




**********************************

6-Pussy's in the well

The peal of bells
lures the traveller
to the city gates
dismembered traitors
with long dead grins
claim him
the dog cocks his leg
pisses on history


the smell of ground coffee
lures him to a chantry
ablaze with coloured sunshafts
a babble of syllables
speak in tongues
lick at a gilded shrine
of some rich bastard
who bought salvation
with bricks and Prime

they light candles
drop coins
everything is for sale
loyalty to the highest bidder
the talk is of lost assets
banks that fail
he fears the rippling rug
for his life , his eyes
his mind, the stubby shadow
of his soul
joins the confessional queue
without hope of absolution




In Berkeley Castle
the screams were heard
for miles around, it's whispered
the people shut their ears
to the torture of another poor sod
with a poor choice of friends
and prayed for mercy
for a quick death to stop
the noise
it is not politic
to be deviant
not wise to see
(or hear or speak)

hide your face from the cameras
display your Daily Sport
your crumpled
News of the Screws
where it can be clearly seen
that you conform.




I ran back to you
before the iron grille
slammed shut
and trapped the fingers
of my spirit in the mesh
you fed me bread
and honey
and sweet green tea
wrapped me in embroidered silk.

Empty Apartment

You get into a habit
of knowing the hours
the neighbours keep.


The Lithuanians left
moved on and I
still look for lights in blank
windows
but
no slippers wait on the floor
by the french doors
for their return
the waft of cigarette smoke
from their veranda
no longer pervades our hall
full bodied bass and treble
volume
vibrates our ornaments
from the shelves no more.

In the garage
where once thumped
exercise machines
and sculptured flesh and muscle
pumped and puffed
pushed weights and grunted
to the rhythmic breaking
of pain
barriers
silence settles damply.

The lonely wind
funnels deadletters
into the gutters
parodies the ice maiden's
roller- blades' grinding whir
the backstreet yawns
devoid of foreign cars
black as a sleeping cat
eyes closed tight
without the relentless blue
of Vlad's LED alarm
flash. flash. flash. flash.