The Ghost of Christmas Past.

The ghost of Christmas past

Came knocking at my door,

He took me to the time

When my little girls were four.

 

We knelt before the Christmas tree

Presents crudely wrapped but there,

A plate by the fireside

With Santa’s festive fayre.

 

We walked into their bedroom

As quietly as you can,

My two small girls were sleeping there

In Ramsey, Isle of Man.

 

In the muted light they seemed peaceful

Asleep and safe and warm

In a home filled with love and family

To keep them safe from harm.

 

The stockings on the bedposts

Were filled with treats and toys

Hung there by their Daddy

To bring them hope and joy.

 

Christmas was extra special

In that one particular year

As Daddy had come home safely

From military conflict fuelled by fear.

 

I thanked the kindly ghost

For reminding me that night

That despite the hours of darkness

Christmas is about recognising the light.

 

May your Christmas time be peaceful

Filled with memories that shine,

To keep your heart warm through the cold

And lonely times.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson.

DSCF0019

 

 

 

 

Prodigal

Clumsy — awkward steps across the hall — Childlike stomps beyond the wall.

My heart skips a beat.

Is it you? Are you home?

 

Stealth — I meld with the shadows — I limber lithely behind the arch.

Eager to surprise you with my smile.

Are you near? Is it your footsteps I hear?

 

Shouts — call out your name — voice cracks through the silence.

We melt into each other’s arms.

My child is home.

 

©Alison Jean Hankinson

 

This is for d’Verse mtb.

If only …….

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.

 

 

 

 

The Journey Home.

The Sea washes over me

I am lost in yearning

For a time, tide and place

A space of belonging

That once I called home.

 

Far away dreams

Distant foreshores

Mellow memories of love

As the spirits guide me

On my long journey home.

 

© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for the Tuesday platform at imaginary garden with real toads.

 

Re-integration

We are treated as vagrants

worthless souls with no right to belong

It feels like someone is playing with our lives

having a giggle at our expense

One step forward ten steps back

and even though we were born here there is no recompense.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for Monday Quadrille at d’Verse

d’Verse quadrille

Terraceville-Living in the Valley.

The train clatters down the track

Clickety clack clickety clack

To deliver the coal and slack

From the pithead.

 

Smoke emanates from the dirty stack

Wives hanging washing out the back

From the outhouses of the back to backs

In Terraceville our suburban mill-town.

 

Kids play in the street and no- one cares

Mothers holler for their offspring and no-one dares

Be late for supper. Free from care

Because they are always there,

And we are taught to share

With each other.

 

Got no money put it on tick

Misbehave and you get the stick

Get drunk Friday and you’ll be in the nick

In our suburban mill-town.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

The photos are from the Peter Fisher Archive and gallery….and this was where I grew up.

Peter fisher gallery

 

This is an attempt…. of sorts for poetics….for d’Verse poetics… I am not sure I achieved…it was not something I normally do…but we are here to learn…. so I have given it a go.

d’verse poetics suburb