The

The Alps of Ince.

Over the slagtip we would go,
On a bright and sunny day,
To see the little town below
And places far away.
With a couple of sugar butties,
And a bottle of Tizer pop.
We'd climb up to the summit,
And walk along the top.
And there we'd sit for ages,
Throwing stones around,
And watching bricks and pebbles,
Go rolling to the ground -
Humming a song of freedom,
Way up in the sky -
There we'd sit upon a rock,
And watch the world go by,
With our friends and neighbours,
And others we would meet,
Some from round the corner,
And others from our street.
Up above....the singing lark -
Below....the bowling green,
And in between the earth and sky,
The air was fresh and clean,
And there we'd pass the time away,
As happy as can be,
Where folks could see the Alps of Ince,
From Cheshire and the sea.
To the south was Fiddler's Ferry -
To the north was Coppull Mill,
While east and west sat Bolton -
The coast and Parbold Hill,
And there we'd stay for ages,
High upon a rock,
Oblivious to time and care,
Without a watch or clock -
Humming a song of freedom,
Over the fields we'd roam,
To the rabbit rocks and slagtip,
Of Higher Ince and home.

The Bunion.

Wearing sandals in the snow,
My feet get wet and cold -
Must be careful how I go
Now I'm getting old.
The trouble started years ago
With Nike trainers tight -
Both my feet were really sore
When they came off at night.
My big toe joint did throb so bad -
By God those days were hard -
Made me feel so low and sad
I couldn't walk a yard.
No sooner was the bunion cropped -
And that was such a curse
The second metatarsal dropped
And that was even worse.
It's not a happy state to be
And not much one can do
Trying to get from A to B,
With a pebble in the shoe.
The pain was awful every day
And I got so depressed -
I couldn't stand - I had to lay
And couldn't get undressed.
The surgeon cut and screwed it
To raise it off the floor
And two years on my shoe won't fit -
I can't do nothing more.
At least, for now the pain is gone
And I can walk the shops
But only with my sandals on
And two thick pairs of socks.
So if you see me in the snow
Walking on my heels
Remember that I told you so
You'll know just how it feels.
And the moral of the story is
Get the fittings right
And don't expect to walk in bliss
By wearing shoes too tight.

The Dreamer.

It's the year two thousand and what is the state? -
Football supporters screaming hate -
Abuse and corruption in all walks of life -
Countries at war with trouble and strife.
Litter, graffiti and drugs everywhere,
Streets thronged with people who don't seem to care.
Churches decaying and closing each day,
With nowhere to go to and nowhere to pray,
Nowhere to sit and be at peace for an hour -
Souls without spirit and minds going sour.
Traffic, computers, the dread internet -
You're going to get it if you haven't got it yet.
Bad news on telly - nothing seems right,
And now it keeps going straight through the night,
No rest for the wicked and less for the good,
In a world full of chaos and simmering blood.
Road rage and violence of every damn kind,
Hearts getting harder and eyes going blind.
It's a hundred years and where do we go -
We're treading the path that's been trodden before,
The same old confusions that tear men apart,
That rip out the feelings that govern the heart -
Ambition and striving and "I'm all right Jack",
When will we stop and start looking back -
Perhaps it's too late and this is a sign,
The sun is setting on man's swift decline,
For he has learned nothing at all from the past,
The next move he makes may well be his last.
A hundred years later and it's not looking well -
What happens next no one can tell,
But one thing for sure, the earth will still turn,
The stars will still shine and the sun will still burn.
For there is a spirit that refuses to cease,
In it's quest for perfection and heavenly peace.
But I'm just a dreamer and dreamers can lie,
By conjuring angels from a snake in the sky,
As he lays on his back on a bright summer's day,
Watching each cloud as it drifts on it's way.
A hundred years later and we don't see the stars,
Or the wonders of Nature - we much prefer cars,
Or the latest invention of a material trap,
Which once being acquired there's no turning back.
And where in the end will all these thing lead,
When people just plunge into debt out of greed,
Demanding such things that they cannot afford,
Just because they've got one up the road.
Please stop the earth for I've had enough -
It's going too fast and I want to get off,
For sooner or later the worse will turn worst,
Mankind will explode and the bubble will burst,
Then we'll all be flung out into space,
Marking the end of the human race...
But don't be dismayed for there's something divine,
When the dreamer awakes to a new world in time,
And then with a stretch, a yawn and a smile,
He's happy to know it's all been worthwhile,
For all is forgotten - over and done -
The nightmare is ended and the dreamer has won!

The First Gate.

The first gate was the Top Lock
And nearby stood an Inn
When barges sailing iron and coal
Passed laden to the brim
For the ovens of the Kirkless
Which spewed out liquid gold
For various steel constructions
In the arduous days of old.
Tis the Leeds and Liverpool canal -
Southwards winding down
And the start of the Wigan flight of locks
Through Ince and Irish Town
But now the industry is gone
And the pounds are quiet and still
At peace and left to Nature
As it trickles down the hill
For the old canal at Ince today
Holds beauty of it's own
Now the old grey hills have gone
And the banks have overgrown
And people come from miles around
When the summer skies are blue
To savour it's tranquility
And loiter on the view -
Hikers, bikers, Nature-likers -
Souls of every kind
With joggers, bloggers, walking-doggers
All come to clear their minds
And stroll the old canal at Ince
To marvel at the scene
Of the Rabbit rocks and painted locks
Around it's banks of green
To muse upon it's history
With eyes opened wide
And glimpse the panorama
Of the southern countryside
So if you're feeling low one day
As everybody does
Take some pop and sandwiches
And catch a New Springs bus
And drop off at the Kirkless Inn
And even if it's shut
You can always find some peace of mind
By a walk along the cut.

The Five-Thirty Jub.

The Five Thirty Jub ran mostly on time
Up the slope of the old Whelley line
Over the lane and past Belle Green school
To Preston and north - from south, Liverpool.
Every dark winter - her fires aglow
She'd throw down coal to the people below -
Cyclops, Mauritius, Rodney and Blake
Would hit the incline and take off the brake.
Roaring and panting, gleaming and bright
She passed like a ghost and into the night.
Cyprus, Gibraltar, Aden and Mars
Outran the wind and outshone the stars
And there we would wait on the pavement below
To see if we knew her or seen her before.
Ajax, Leander, Armada and Rooke
All had a place in our little book.
With rasping aggression she took on the cants
Leaving a trail of smoke on her flanks
With pistons racing and pulling for time
Up the slope of the old Whelley line.
The Five Thirty Jub had a sound it`s own
As she raced to get her passengers home.
Under the bridges and over the fields
Hissing and sprinting on big shiny wheels -
Tobago, Trinidad, Nelson and Howe
Would race up the hill and over the brow
Roaring and panting, gleaming and bright
She passed like a ghost and into the night.

The House I Used to Live In.

The house that I used to live in
Had a hole in the roof and more -
A cold water pipe in the corner
And paving slabs on the floor.
Her floorboards creaked and her ceilings
Were cracked and flaking away
Her walls were damp and her gutters
Were split through years of decay
But God we were lucky to have her
And the sun to rise where it did
In the east so we had all sunshine
In Ince when I was a kid.
The school was just round the corner
And we never got restless or bored
With coutryside sprawled all about us
And the Wigan Alps just up the road.
Her doors had rusty old hinges
And her drains did oft overflow
And the bricks in her chimney were perished
Much like the ones down below
But God we were lucky to have her
To be born at a time when we did
When the sticklebacks thrived in the shallows
In Ince when I was a kid.
To be born when the skylarks were rising
In the months of April and May
To warble away in the ether
One after the other all day.
The house that I used to live in
Was more than a hundred years old
Her beams were sagging and twisted
And her rooms were drafty and cold -
Her old sash windows were rotten
And her sills were weathered and worn
She had no running hot water
And she had no fridge or a phone
But God we were lucky to have her
To see a sparrowhawk swoon
As we roamed the fields for lizards and newts
And gathered frogspawn in June.
Lucky were we to have Nature
Outside of her door as we grew -
The ponds and canal all teaming with fish
With plentiful roaming to do -
To stride the wide open spaces
Where the grass grew velvet and lush
As the finch piped away in the treetops
And the sparrows fought in the bush.
The house that I used to live in
With age did frown and complain
But she set us a table for dinner
And brought us in out of the rain
And God we were lucky to have her
And I'd go back home if I could
When the population had morals
And the world seemed decent and good
To step outside in the morning
And wander the streets without cars
To group and chat on the corner
And stay out playing for hours.
The house that I used to live in
Was nearing the end of her day
Her joints were aching for mortar
And her tiles were slipping away
But God I'm glad that we had her
In the special place where we did
For heaven was all but around us
In Ince when I was a kid.

Down by the old canal where cushion grasses grew,
Many a summer's crowd of heated brow the cooling waters drew
Upon those beachy banks where clover sands were laid,
Beneath the skylark`s rising shrill the village clamour swayed.
In silent pose upon the bridge a sturdy figure leaned,
Above him blazed the midday sun, below the water gleamed.
All fifteen pints on tiptoe stood old Bushy Tom the diver -
Many a daring leap had he defied and taken home a fiver.
That afternoon upon the banks the children watched with awe,
And people gathered round the spot where Tom chewed on his straw.
With bathing cap upon his head and hairy chest inflated,
Every eye among the crowd upon him concentrated
With fifteen pints of best Bush ale this man was such a dare,
He spat his straw, drew a breath and rose into the air.
Fifteen stones of a dolphin plunge from fingertips to toes,
He hit the surface like a blade and up the water rose.
And when he struck the tranquil pool, a gradely splash was made,
Some twenty feet the fountain sprang and o'er the capstan sprayed.
Old Wilf Jones was soaking wet, his smouldering pipe was quenched.
From polished boots to white cravat, his Sunday best was drenched.
But such a splendid dive it was that many were amazed -
Folk sat clapping in the grass and much applause was raised,
And even when the bubbles burst where Tom had disappeared,
Bending heads looked smiling down while others simply cheered.
A minute passed, the water calmed then interest slowly mounted,
And every minute after that, with grave concern were counted.
Tom was good at holding breath as well as supping beer,
But such a spell beneath the deep indeed gave rise to fear.
Now while the Skylark sang above, the dreadful silence grew -
" Where might be our Bushy Tom " ? it's certain no one knew.
He was so fond of playing tricks and many a time surprised,
And fooled the folk by coming up far from where he dived.
Now while the Skylark sang above, the summer sun sat burning,
And many tongues denied the hope that Tom might be returning.
" Fetch the Locky ", someone cried as fear began to spread,
So young John Smith lept on his bike and down the bank he sped.
Summertime for Locky Joe was such a busy season,
And hard was he to action call without a stirring reason,
But Bushy Tom so well he knew - a friend of his Aunty Nellie's,
That when he heard the tragic news he soon put on his wellies.
A speedy man was Locky Joe - a miler he had been -
No sooner had he left his hut he arrived upon the scene.
The situation called for tact - experience gave him plenty.
With rapid turns he wound his key and the lock began to empty.
Inch by inch the water drained - the crowd began to wonder,
Attention focused on the spot suspect to the blunder.
Vacant gaping from the bridge on elbows propt supported,
And fingers pointed to the wall where Bushy Tom's straw floated.
Meanwhile, across those ferny fields where lawns rose tall and plush,
Anxious whispers spread around and murmurs filled the Bush.
Along that stoney road where dust lay dry as salt,
An urgent treck of local lads came trailing from the vault.
Up by Daisy pond where ducks sailed on the shallow,
Farmer Hesketh left his plough and trudged across the fallow.
Bill the bargeman too was strolling by and near the fence had stopped,
And while he pondered, scratched his head, the murky level dropped.
Now while the skylark sang above she sang a song of woe,
Another foot the water fell - the parish clock struck four.
Half the lock had drained away and eager eyes were peeled,
Still not a trace of Bushy Tom the fateful spot did yield.
At ten past four the solemn truth so painful to disclose,
Protruded through the gleaming sheen - a pair of quivering toes.
Old Bushy Tom that devil dare, no pride now to defend,
Saluted to the sky above and faced his muddy end.

(To be continued)

As if to sense some grief afoot, the faltering lark withdrew,
She folded up her tiring wings and tumbled out of view.
The bargeman groaned a painful sigh, the farmer drew away,
And Locky Joe could not absorb the horrors of the day.
In all his years upon the flight this man could tell a tale,
Of valiant men doing dangerous things under the influence of ale,
And time after time he warned them, " Have fun but stay alive -
Twas not a sin to splash and swim, but look before you dive " !
For the sludgy bed of the old canal was fraught with perils blind,
And many an unseen boulder had crippled a man's behind,
And many a sharp obtrusive rock did gash the paddling foot -
Such were the invisible hazards of messing about in the cut.
Up and down the bank he strode, with slow-decreasing pace -
The anguish of the afternoon was stamped upon his face,
And as he paused to glance once more, he knew it was the end -
The cursed deceiver alcohol had claimed a lifelong friend.
In the blistering heat of the desert sun he stood by the lowering brink,
Where the dragonfly zig-zagged her way by and his dog would stoop for a drink.
His head in his hands and heart in his mouth, dejected and truly depressed,
He wondered how it all happened and what to do for the best.
Was it the entry or take-off that caused the prank to go wrong,
Was it the gauge or maybe his age, or was the bitter too strong.
Perhaps it was a mudbank or an unseasonal build-up of silt,
Or was it the place where two barges embraced and a cargo of coal was spilt.
Too late now to fathom excuses - the opposing gambler had won -
The coined had been tossed, Bushy had lost and the unfortunate mishap was done!
The wounded cry of a wren flitting by was the only sound to be heard,
Except for the trickling of water, no one uttered a word.
All along the silent shore the carefree frolic died,
Many a heart was torn apart and many a hard man cried.
The wounded squalk of an inquisitive coot, the plaintive call of a plover -
The feeling was strong that something was wrong - the holiday was over.
As the golden lamp of life looked down in sympathetic glare,
Where smiles once beguiled and the slumbering child was oblivious to care,
Through the thick and humid air, a tipsy cabbage-white,
Fluttered over Bushy`s feet and wobbled out of sight.
Close up to the watery tomb the glum procession came.
The angry keeper fought them back but still they came again.
Old Wilf Jones sank to his knees and slumped against the wall -
The loss was overwhelming - the pain was felt by all.
Elsie Higgins, plump and low, her shoulders red and raw,
Came storming to the water's edge, incensed at what she saw.
" You brainless fool, what have you done " ! - the frantic woman cried,
As she gazed upon the dizzy height which Bushy had defied.
Now Elsie was the only love the reckless diver knew -
To him she was so loyal - to her he was so true,
Such cause had she to weep and rage in this her darkest hour,
For Bushy was her bumble bee and she his only flower.
By the grassy verge she stood with hands pressed on her hips -
Her tears fell like a cataract upon her trembling lips.
" Someone help " ! - the wench cried out, with panicking increased,
So young John Smith lept on his bike to fetch the local police.
With wiry limbs, elastic lungs and swift determination,
The chariot wheels of the nimble youth screeched outside the station.
Rope, grappling hooks and prayers were all the tools they had -
The sergeant and his frogman pursued the dauntless lad.
If time and motion went to war, they fought a dire affray -
Each minute seemed an hour - each hour seemed like a day,
Yet in the true dimension which shocks exaggerate,
It was less than fifteen minutes since Bushy met his fate.
As the parish clock struck quarter past, the hazy sunlight frowned,
As a mass of menacing storm clouds crept o`er the shimmering pound.
The motionless air began to stir and rush through the swaying corn,
And over the hills dark vapours distilled around the edge of the storm.
Now while the skylark strutted home towards her secret nest,
A clap of thunder shook the earth and all the folk got dressed,
Succeeded by a rumbling roar and then a mighty crack,
As raindrops fell like splashing pearls upon the bobby`s mac.
In jumped Ted the frogman with a rope coiled round his neck -
He was half drowned already so he didn`t give a heck.
With a furious flap from his flippers and slick profession haste -
The twine went down, then twice around, he had him by the waist.
Now while the skylark sat below she blinked a winking eye -
The storm flew past the heavens at last and all the world was dry.
The sun shone down a radiant smile upon the clover spread,
And glistened on the buttercups around old Bushy`s head.
The sergeant threw his helmet down and called for space and light,
But as he knelt by Bushy`s side he got an awful fright.
The bargeman beamed a cautious smile - the farmer came up close,
And Aunty Nellie darted back and stood on Elsie`s toes
Locky Joe was not amused but later found it funny -
The weed-strewn corpse upon the grass was an ingenious plastic dummy!
No doubt it was a cunning hoax - a well-planned faked disaster,
And as they marvelled at the plot the crowd cracked up with laughter.
The buzzing throng was jubilant and milled around with glee,
As one by one they slipped away and drifted home for tea.
And as they left, the sluice gated shut, the gushing torrents stilled -
The weary Locky ambled home and the glorious pound was filled.
The bargeman and the farmer exchanged a fain goodbye,
Leaving Elsie on the towpath scowling at the sky...
Where... in sheepish pose upon the bridge a bashful figure sat.
He nibbled on a piece of straw and clutched a bathing cap.
How he got there no one knew, or where he had come from -
He`d played the smartest prank of all - his name was Bushy Tom.

The End

The Man That Had No Music.

The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds
is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
... William Shakespeare

Belle Green lane was the place to be
On a Friday night in Ince
Playing darts and dominoes
And singing in the Prince.
There'd been a new invention
Called a microphone
Which made a good voice better
And a bad one flat in tone
But it didn't really matter
To the ones who couldn't sing
They were too enebriated
To notice anything.
In the days of Ince has Talent
They came from miles around
Hindley, Scholes and Bickershaw
To amplify their sound
To the drums and old piano
Bass and tambourine
In the Bush, The Oak and Engine
And in the old Belle Green.
Friday night was music night
Commencing eight or nine
When the locals turned out to enjoy
Three hours of boozing time -
The ladies in stiletto heels
And daring fish-net tights
And brylcream-plastered gentlemen
Carrying darts and flights.
Friday night was music night
For couples all around
To taste the ale and babycham
And hear the latest sound -
The females with Max Factor
Smelling sweet and dear
And the men in George Raft trousers
With a woodbine on the ear.
It was the place to be indeed
Sat in groups and rows
Away from toil and drudgery
And nagging worldly woes.
In the snugs and singing-rooms of Ince
The natives had a ball
From the Pingy to the Amberswood
To the Manly and Old Hall
The came to croon and yodel
And sing along in glee
To the hits of Connie Francis
And little Brenda Lee -
Slim Whitman and Frank Ifield
And many, many more
In a night of fun and laughter
Behind the green door.

The Medium

Feel my power you sorry folk
The living dead I have awoke
To walk and talk among you here -
Trust in me and have no fear.
A mother, daughter, father, son -
One by one the spirits come.
Some are smiling, some are sad -
Some are good and others bad.
All are waiting here in line
To spend with you a little time -
Spectres from a plane above
Passing roses - leaving love.
You`ll be dumbfounded and aghast
By messages that I have passed.
Feel my power you spirit friend -
For us the end is not the end
For when we pass we carry on
As if we`ve never really gone
And from this place we send you hope
To help you grieve and help you cope.
Family, friends and loved ones, dear
Have come to whisper in my ear
Some are shy and some are bold
Some are young and some are old
But none have ceased and none are dead -
All are waiting up ahead.
Feel my power once again
And I will take away the pain.
Follow me to the other side
Where I will be your spirit guide
And take you to another place
Full of love and full of grace
Where all departed souls do stay
To pass eternity away.
Aunties, uncles - cousins too -
All are waiting here for you
And none have ceased and none are dead -
And all are waiting up ahead.

The Price of Life Was Sweet.

The price of life was sweet and low,
In the days of Irish Town,
When a boy could feel so privileged,
And rich with half a crown -
When he had a pair of garters,
And his stockings were brand new,
And he didn't have the nits at school,
Or a hole in his shoe.
Everyone was much the same,
With the rent and gas to pay,
And a bit of cheap electric,
For the radio each day,
And a bulb to light the room at night,
When winter came along -
The food we ate had vitamins,
And the beer was good and strong.
We had no debts to tie us down,
Or fret ourselves about -
There was no hire purchase,
And no one lent us nowt.
The rest went in our pockets,
For little odds and ends,
Like a night out at the pictures,
And a woodbine with our friends.
The price of life was sweet and low,
For we didn't have that much,
And what we had we treasured -
Thank you very much !
Little things made us happy,
And kept away the blues,
Like a duffle coat in winter,
Or a nice new pair of shoes -
A trip to the seaside,
In summer now and then,
Kept us smiling all year long,
When it came back round again.
We had no expectations then,
Like they have today,
And we were happy just to be,
And live from day to day.
All we had for christmas,
Was a cap gun and some socks -
An apple and an orange,
And a small selection box,
Which made us joyful as can be,
And never made us frown,
For the price of life was sweet and low,
In the days of Irish Town.

The landlord's hands were never still for he had much to do,
When local drinkers swamped his bar to taste his potent brew.
The Sunday lunchtime thirst was great - the heatwave was severe,
And soon the rowdy Bush was full and freely flowed the beer.
The vault was bursting at the seems - the doors were open flung -
The singing room was in full throng and hearty strains were sung
The buzzing snug had much to say but little could be heard,
As laughter soared from lobby stools and drowned her every word..
The lively click of dominoes - the arrow's muffled thud -
The games room was erupting and losers called for blood
Outside the fiery sun beat down and the temperature did soar
As the old piano rattled on behind the green door.
All was normal at the Bush but close near by that day,
Action brewed on Hemfield mount, a hundred yards away.
A big event was due to start - the long-awaited clash,
Of Bushy Tom and Alec Smith - two men of lightening dash.
Two burly athletes known to all - a proud and able pair,
The one renowned for youth and speed, the other devil-dare,
Stood side by side in sprinting style like hounds raring to go,
Each confident to take the prize and steal the winning show.
A main attraction of the day this contest soon became,
To visitors who crossed the fields to locals on the lane.
People fought for elbow room and jostled for a place,
And folk who came to make inquiries stayed to watch the race
Close up to the starting line the urging crowd was pressed
And keen spectators mounted steps to view the sporting test.
Busy betting circled round among the plungers ring,
And odds of favour even out before the crucial fling.
Side by side the rivals stood, in statue stillness hushed,
A call was made, a shout rang out and off the racers pushed.
The toiling mile at last begun, a steady pace was set,
And as they left the urban scene the crowd was cheering yet.
Cautiously the race began with cagey tit for tat
As Alec sported tauntingly to Bushy at the back
But Bushy Tom was struggling hard behind the playful smile -
In all his wild athletic days he'd never run a mile.
While Alec was a distance man - a champion for the Lock
And knew how well to pace himself and run against the clock
So Bushy had his work cut out - the murderous course to stay
To be the victorious once again and hero of the day.
Of gambling men who drank the Bush, old Bushy was the ace -
Few could match his lion strength - few his boots could lace,
But on that day the ale he drank had sent his legs askew -
And Alec Smith the Top Lock king was striving hard and true.
Such fine condition he was in that Bushy took a jolt,
When half way round the golf links he shot off like a bolt.
The unexpected spurt sustained - new energies to find,
Left Tom struggling on the flat some fifty yards behind.
From sightings high on Rabbit Rock the news came swiftly down,
And faster than the race itself reports went back to town.
The latest upset roused concern among the Bush support,
While partials at the Top Lock Inn at last found cause to gloat.
They came out in their dozens as the news came filtering through
And waited on the bank side to see if it was true
While down the road across the fields the locals did the same
And gathered round the millpond at the top of Belle Green lane.
Between the two extremes once more a thrilling change of mood -
The lagging leader fought in vain to find his strength renewed.
A smiling Alec turned to frown when glancing to commend,
To see instead the phantom Tom come coasting round the bend
Determined not to be outrun and see his name disgraced,
Hard by Bluebell's clumpy crest the beaten prospect chased.
Spurred by thoughts of grim defeat which fighting pride refutes,
And glory in his sights once more - old Bushy beat his boots.
The mammoth gap of fifty yards was now reduced to five
And only one more furlong left - the race was fresh alive.
Rustic ramblers fled the path - their efforts to escape
While down the road the frantic townsfolk clustered round the tape.
From Berry Brook to Primrose Pit the verge was luscious still,
And sweetly sang the cheery lark on high o'er Liptrot Hill,
But few remained to stroll that way - the splendid sights to see,
For all were drawn to Boundary Road to see the final spree,
Where tension gripped with every stride - the passing neutral smiled -
The Bush contingent yelled for Tom - the ranting Lock went wild.
On towards the finishing line the panting duo tried -
Bushy gave it all he could but Alec still defied.
Neck and neck in fusing strain beneath the scorching sun,
With vigour seldom seen before, the clinching dash was run.
Across the line the racers hurled - the long and grueling test
Saw Tom triumphant once again by the inches of his chest!

The Sun Rose Over the Slagtip.

The sun rose over the slagtip
And shone both near and far
On the golden time of Higher Ince
After the great big war.
The world had changed for ever
And the lives of Incers too
As a new age dawned upon us
And life began anew.
The working man was free at last
From the ills of ancient rule -
Everybody went to work
And the children went to school.
They gave us council houses
With a garden and a path
With hot, cold running water
So we could take a bath.
Technology was growing fast
And soon we'd have T.V.
And they sent a bus up Belle Green lane
For the likes of you and me.
Everyone was happy -
Of that there was no doubt
With plenty opportunity
And lots of work about.
Twas a time of liberation
With life relaxed and slow
As the fifties brought prosperity
Never seen before.
There was no crime to speak of
And the doors were left ajar
And a time of fascination
To see a motor car -
Without a trace of envy,
For then we knew not greed
And everybody lived with pride
According to his need.
The fear of death and sickness
Diminished by and large
And we could phone an ambulance
Or a doctor free of charge.
We valued and deserved it
With morals good and true
Handed down by Incers
The generations through.
And yes, it was a golden time
For folk unspoiled by wealth
Grateful for small mercies
And growing strong in health,
Young and uncorrupted
Or wearied by excess -
Free to venture in the world
And ripe for happiness.

The Sweetest Sound.

The sweetest sound I heard in Ince
Was not the nightingale,
The sunset yellowhammer
Or the skylark over the dale
And neither was it a harpischord
Strummed by an angel above
Or the tremulous, soaring soprano
Of some heavenly aria of love.
Twas the music of cloggs on the cobbles
As the miners went on their way
In the early mornings of winter
To the mine at the start of the day
It meant that the wages were coming
And the rent and bills would be paid -
Twas sweeter than a violin
And the harmonious vibrations it made.
It meant we had food on the table
And the will to get up and go
With confidence, heart and affection
That we wouldn`t need anything more.
It meant that all was well with the world -
The rattle of cloggs in the street
It meant some sweets for the children
And a choice of something to eat
It filled us with pride and defiance
And a warm, encouraging glow
As our soldiers marched to the pit head
Upon the pavement below.
The clatter of cloggs on the cobbles
And the sound of steel upon stone
Would keep a shelter over our heads
And make us feel safe in a home
And only one sound was sweeter
And one sound sweeter alone
Was the sound of cloggs on the cobbles
Of the miners coming back home !

In the local Crown Court To fight and plead his case:

"Your Royal Highness, Lordship, Sir - have mercy on my soul -
Upon my mother's death I swear I never pinched that coal"...
The judge sat musing once again - the jury muttered low,
And Sergeant Thompson shook his head besides the courtroom door.
The sympathetic sergeant smiled a long and cautious grin,
Extending from his helmet peak to the strap beneath his chin.
"Order please!", the judge rang out - the shuffling panel froze -
The prosecution rose to speak - the lawyer blew his nose.
The trembling orphan braced himself but trembled all the same,
And almost sank below the dock when asked to state his name.
"Alfred Hope" - the choked reply - the cunning Swift bemused -
Glanced twice around the shivering hall then faced the pale accused.
A shrewd, inclement man was he whom now the court addressed -
His name was known for miles around and all declared him best.
So well had Alfred cause to quake with guilt upon his face -
Charles Swift, the ruthless wig had never lost a case.
Keen as the morning frost itself - in many ways more chill -
The learned butcher, duty bound, advanced to calve his skill,
And like the icy wind that crept around the parish trees,
The trial of Honest Alf progressed in painful, slow degrees.
Snow lay thick upon those steps where muffled justice cried,
Where local interest waited news while Alf was being tried:
Where, brave against the arctic draught which scourged the vicar's way,
Comrades of the cold condemned were never far away.
Sid the Slinger, Harry Nails - Bill and Betty Brown,
And many other friends besides had just arrived in town,
Where, stolid as three northern gulls upon some polar rock,
Henry, Tom and Hilda Hope, reviewed the town hall clock.
A mere eight stones in his running pumps - the jury all agreed -
A better man than Alfred Hope could not have had the speed,
When, three officers pursued that night - a sergeant and his chief,
And though they gave a heated chase, they failed to catch the thief.
With whippet haste from Carter's Yard, around the watchman's shed,
Into the dark December night the lightening culprit fled.
Young Thompson followed close behind to be at last dismayed,
When o'er the ditch-strewn Butler's Heath his torch began to fade.
Relief came slick from Crankhill Road where constable C. Sloane,
Almost had the scoundrel cuffed but stumbled o`er a stone.
The rest rejoined in fresh pursuit to comb the maize in vain -
The nimble crook was out of sight and never seen again.
"Your Royal Highness, Lordship, Sir, may heaven strike me down,
And hell engulf my soul in flames if I deceive the Crown,
For on that chill, aforesaid night when the alleged offence occurred,
I bragged the hour with uncle Ted who'll vouch my every word.
Aunty Lil was present too - the cat curled on her knee,
And there we sat from eight o'clock till past the hour of three.
Twas I who quenched the flickering wick and I who then did snore,
When I was fast asleep in bed around the hour of four".
The judge he beamed a frozen smile - the angry Sloan grew tense,
When up sprang hefty Hilda Hope in Alfred Hope's defence.
"It`s true my Lord - my Lord it`s true, and there lies truth indeed,
So call this hearing to an end and let this man be freed".
The lightening Swift was slow at last to quip or condescend -
The farcial trial of Honest Alf was drawing to an end.
The wigs all gazed in disbelief - the Sergeant shook his fist,
For lack of evidence alone, the prisoner was dismissed...
The scenes at Alfred's house that night were warm to say the least,
For all had come to gather round and join the good man's feast.
The brewer's stout was excellent - the butcher's pork was sweet,
And coal enough to last for days made such a noble treat!

The Whopper.

Fishing away on the cut one day,
I witnessed a remarkable crank -
A fish leaped out of the bubbling spout,
And landed itself on the bank!
Somewhat dazed and truly amazed,
I couldn't believe my eyes,
Not by the way it floundered away,
But the length and breadth of it's size.
One and a half foot for a fish of the cut,
Before had never been seen,
And here was a whale flapping it's tail,
Ten paces away on the green.
It's all a bit blurred and it sounds absurd,
But I thought I was having a fit,
And all I recall was the panic and gall,
As I wrestled it into my grip.
Close to five pounds, it slithered around,
Bounding and fighting with haste -
The blighter was strong as I tussled along,
To grab a hold on it's waist.
Time won't erase the look on it's face,
As eyeball to eyeball we met,
And the shocked disbelief of coming to grief,
And ending up in a net.
The struggle was taut - five minutes we fought,
With scales and slime everywhere,
And I remember so well the lingering smell,
As it wafted it's fins in the air.
It seemed like an age when the dwindling rage,
Finally abandoned it's gut,
As there it lay twitching away,
Upon the bank of the cut.
The whopper subdued, I started to brood,
And dwell on the fate of my friend,
When out of nowhere it sprang in the air,
And wriggled it's way to... THE END!