Spring lingers long….

It feels as though it is winter that has lingered. I look around me daily and wonder at the daffodils just peeping through and everything seems to be a month behind where it was this time last year. The order is the same, but the flowering has been delayed, the rosy red tulips are only just nodding their heads toward the sun and yet April is past midway and almost done.

Then just a sprinkling of sunshine and an early evening stroll and we have stolen moments of pleasure to treasure as the daylight lingers and the smell of spring scintillates the soul.

Pebbles underfoot

Ripples of lingering spring

Sunsets in the west.


© Alsion Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse haibun monday.



The Poem speaks…..

I exist because you thought me

And I clamoured for my voice to be heard

For my energy to explode across the meaningful void of silence that exists between our worlds.


I dance between our worlds

I bring life to the lifeless, lyrics to the song, enchantment to the disillusioned

I am magical mystical moments that separate reality and dullness from freedom and spirit.


I lift the conscious to a greater sense of awareness

I create a depth stronger than the deep-rooted foundations on which you build your windiest cities.

I am lighter than air, a whim, a wish, a wistful glance into a wearied past,

A foray into a frozen forest of feelings that no-one else dare explore.


You give me breath and life and send me reluctantly skittering into a world of startling sterility.


© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse meeting at the bar where we were asked to consider ars poetica which I think is the art of poetry. I guess I tried to see what it was like being a poem.

Pilgrimage in a post-industrial landscape.


Morpeth mopes amidst the mildewed mounds

Of coke and coal and grime hewn by hungry hands.

Derelict Silos silhouetted in a moonlit sky

Iron beasts and barren landscapes

Whilst Angel spreads her wings on hillside high.


Deep scars and seams of people slain

In Tanfield beneath the sleet and driving rain

The worlds oldest railway dilapidated in dormant sidings dies

Testament to Britain- the first industrial nation,

An epithet built on poor peoples’ lives.

©Alison Jean Hankinson


We spent Easter in the wind snow and rain, touring the North-East. This is for d’verse where we were asked to consider pilgrimage. To me this was a true pilgrimage. It was a journey I felt compelled to take. We stand on the shoulders of giants.

To the mining towns of the North-East

Olden days way back coal slack
Derelict mines chimney stacks
Biting winds-the sand is black
Pinched and poor we ain’t got jack.

©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is a Tanaga for d’Verse, it consists of a quatrain made up of 7 syllable lines with same rhyme.

We are in the North-East and it is a post-industrial landscape, and this is a tribute to the blood, sweat and tears of the colliers who contributed to making Britain the First Industrial Nation. #northernspirit  #northernsoul

The other woman.

It was a lacklustre marriage

A bouquet of flowers on a spring day

Followed by shortcomings and oversights.

“I don’t hound you Joyce…What do you mean

I am the perfect gent, always there to stand at your side.”

I wanted a man not a dog.


He had carried me across the threshold

Love danced in his eyes-It was a breath-taking moment of becoming

Then the colour of roses faded

His skin lost the scent of sandalwood

And we were dead in the water, his love had shifted upstream.


She had crystal blue eyes and a wanton smile

He was mesmerised by her moodiness

She pulled him in with her powerful and ardent amour

and summoned his presence on a platter of platitudes

Served with a side order of shipwrecked marriage.


It was a lacklustre marriage

Followed by shortcomings and oversights.

He had carried me across the threshold

before the colour of roses faded

And his love went astray.


©Alison Jean Hankinson


This is for d’Verse.



From cargoes to wasteland.

The first poem that ever really grabbed me was Cargoes by John Masefield, I was about 7 years old. I think my dad could recite it off by heart and it sounded so delicious, the words were so lyrical and dripped off the page like honey and then there was the dirty British coaster and it made me so proud to be a northerner, whilst we didn’t have the opulence of the Orient, we played an important role in the world. This was when I started to write poetry but I struggled for a while as I preferred to write poems that didn’t rhyme and I didn’t know anything about structure either and had no-one to teach me.

As a teen I moved into the realms of The Wasteland and had a wonderful teacher who made the Thames maidens come alive- I can still hear the Weialala leia- and loved the references and the voices, the languages, and the tempo and timbre changes. I discovered Sylvia Plath and devoured Ted Hughes, he lived in Heptonstall for a while and I used to play there at the whit walks with the Brass Band and walk down the steep cobblestones playing my trombone. Then I stopped writing and only really started again in November 2016 as my 50th birthday present to myself, and I discovered d’Verse. I love the challenge and the words and the learning and the community. It has been a wonderful voyage of rediscovery and I love giving a voice to the past, then the stories can live on.

Winter storm

We take to the road

Spring’s adrift.

©Alison jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse where we have been asked by Toni to explore where our inner poet was inspired and nurtured.


My own flock of birds…

Here they silently speak my language

Share my passion for puns

Take pride in a past that is a portrait

Of my heritage and the story of my blood.


Here I belong

The names of the rivers and valleys and mountains

Are etched as clearly in my mind as the rugged landscapes

That call out my name on wild and windy mornings

and stir my restless spirit from its slumbers.


Irwell, Ribble, Eden, Lune

Here the waters wash away my whispers

Pendle, Cribden, Criffel, Shap

Here the shale and slate smooths away my fears.


©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse poetics.