Glasson Dock Revisited.

Glasson dock steeped in sunshine, the echo of the empty space that was the Babagee. Barges and boats and banter of family gatherings shimmers across the water beyond the broken hulls. The old stones of the lockgate still holds the memory of your footsteps.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for the Quadrille with d’Verse hosted by Grace tonight, Still is the prompt and it is on there somewhere. The image is from Wikimedia and is of the derelict Babagee before it was demolished.

d’Verse quadrille

 

Fear receding….

The transition to seaside life has been a total joy. However dark and difficult the long days of winter were with their obstacles barriers and uncertainties and the fears that we would somehow fail. There was always a small smattering of hope that things would eventually work out for the better. We have been able to rekindle our love for our own culture and connections, track back through pathways and places that were already part of our story and re-establish the significance of our own place in this wonderful landscape.

The move in springtime to Heysham has been a wonderful and welcome move into what promises to be a pleasant phase of our lives. The sea and scenery are endless sources of peace, calm and serenity. The joy to be able to walk and witness this place in all its beauty and glory for just a small part of each day is genuine food for the soul. There is a song by Groove Armada it is such a seaside song, it talks of sand-dunes and salty air and it is just the sentiment of this place, a seaside town resting on its laurels and trying to reinvent itself as the coastal jewel in the crown resting at the foothills of the Lake District. Mountains on the horizon, resplendent in a salmon sunset, windmills stretching out to sea as far as the eye can see,  ancient history carved into the headland and wilderness, wind and wavespray.

Mid tide Glasson Dock

In sprightly spring-time sunshine

Fear and dark thoughts ebb

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

This is my late offering for Haibun Monday and is about fear receding.

d”verse Haibun

 

oops just missed the link by 35 minutes…

The Ghost of Winter past.

I remember the soft snowflakes

Delicate as lace

Framed by the cold frigid moonlight

Falling gently to the ground.

Shrouding the world in a pure white blanket

Which sought to cleanse another winter

 

But pure white turned to grey

And the peaceful night became another dirty day.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

snow-1350948_1280

This is my contribution for d’Verse open night.

The image is from pixabay,

Openlink night

 

 

Windmills and wave-spray.

This changing landscape

Is food for the soul

Misty moody blues beyond the ruins of St Patrick’s

Hues of sand and stone beyond the headland’s horizon

The mysterious mudflats home to the sandwalker of Morecambe Bay.

Wish you were here Heysham.

Alison Jean Hankinson

Hall all this is my postcard….d’Verse poetics

Kestrel

common_kestrel_in_flight

Virtue her’s is beauty

She hesitates then pounces

And in a flounce of majesty

A reverie of gracefulness

Swoops to savage the delicacies of a dew-sodden dawn

Reap the rewards of a cold rancid morn.

 

Narcotic silence

Renders love unto my soul

Removes the talons from my heart

Her beauty numbs the pain of death.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

d’Verse open link

This is for the open link night at d’verse.

The image is  Common Kestrel in flight from wikimedia.

What am I?

 

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I am the face of hope,

In the fast fading light.

 

I am the distant dream

Driving forwards, when the day draws to a close,

The Star-bright shining in a suburban sultry night.

 

I am the laughter and the tears, the fear and guilt and pain,

Felt by all the mothers before me, the broken and the humbled, the joyous and loving,

I am the seed, the seedling, the roots, trunk and branches.

I bear the fruit. I am the womb of time.

 

I am me, fifty and finally come of age, woman.

 

Alison Jean Hankinson

 

It is open link night #190 at d’Verse and so we are encouraged to submit anything we choose, this was part of something I wrote a while back, and I guess it is what I need to believe at the moment. Returning and coming home has been nothing short of gruelling, nothing has been simple at all. It has been a little like hurling yourself from a small cliff into a ferocious and stormy ocean. I have to know deep down that it will come right and that the storm will pass. To do this I have to peel back the layers and remind myself of what I believe I am and then slowly start to pick myself up again.

The image is Ellen and the tree- the second version…and my children are very much a symbol of what I am.

 

Childhood remembered

Childhood memory haibun for d’Verse- Haibun monday #28

Joanne and Alyson Abel had a goat. It lived on a messy piece of land adjoining their house which was probably actually their garden. Our garden was similar- a messy piece of land over a footbridge and formed part of a field. It never got mowed it wasn’t that kind of grass. I caught endless fish in a bucket using old stockings and coathangers and always put them back.

I lived and played outdoors in the summer and I don’t remember the rain, I borrowed other people’s distant sheds and turned them into “ganghuts” or dens in Doubledeckers style. I would track the rivers back to streams and back to source and wash stones in the summer sun. I ate gooseberries from the bushes near the Goyt (not it’s real name) which was a dammed swimming hole behind the school which all the children were forbidden to use- but we all did and no-one died, floating in inner tubes late into the day until we heard the din of the mothers cooking dinner and shouting for their off-spring.

Summer glow in heart

Friendships echo through the blue

Childhood re-kindled.

 

 

 

Images

Water School from the fields

Isle of Man Mill. Courtesy of Wikimedia- Photo by Robert Wade 2011. (My mum worked there as a seamstress)

Isle of Man Mill