Railway Town: The Carlisle Poem

I

Welcome glimpses of day first peep over the hill,
    To spot the field as, damp with dew,
The vole who danced to the nightingale’s trill,
    Does yawn and stretch, then noses through
        Tall blades of grass;
            So cold, so sharp.

Golden leaves stutter “Fall”, branches bare thus accord,
    That Autumn time is now set fast.
So nuts and seeds by the squirrel are stored,
    Who nimbly mounts the bark of ash,
        To pause and glance...
            At distant spires.

On the river so nonchalant, biding their time,
    Calm swans do guide their cygnets’ path.
Close by, the shrew scurries home from that line,
    Where steaming roars and fiery wrath
        Do close up close
            On him and hiss!

II

Bowing poplars soon usher this “president” by,
    Were sour hued stones can raise no joy.
The screeching brakes in the Citadel cry,
    And stoker, grey, and driver, blue,
        Plod on to find
            The tea-maid fine.

In this station of sandstone and elegant grime,
    The poundings rumble anxious hearts,
Who long for loved ones or, losing them, pine,
    For they may never greet that part
        Of life again,
            At home, they fear.

Near the wheezing and rasping, the clatter of hooves,
(That gathered in broad courtyard square),
Had clip-clops clocked by a face up above,
    Which, from its tower, beams out a glare,
        Past hands too slow
            To hide its cheek.

III

Jolly ‘merrie’, the duo of turrets we view,
    Bid cautious greetings to the foe,
Reminding any who may go astray,
    That straight to jury they must go:
        When found and caught,
            Then fined in Court.

Pretty fountain or statue or flower or sod,
    Accompany all who take their rest,
To watch those ‘others’, so hurried and hot,
    Attempt to beat the clock, beset
        With ‘flu they fly,
            And steam with cold.

On the Street of the nation, high buildings entrance.
    Both restaurant and hotel clad,
It blossoms into a buzzing expanse;
    That Place at which the heart’s a Cross,
        As Town Hall, quaint,
            Dear time recalls.

IV

You remember it well, do you not, sad old town?
    It hurts, it must, oh ay, it ought:
That time, your prime, has now passed, and you frown,
    As you perceive what new is wrought
        Upon your streets,
            Before your eyes.

In this Place there was seen regal train, at a time
    When sirs and wives would come to trade.
In rain, in shine, a fair deal they would find,
    On market stalls with goods well laid
        To tempt those sirs
            To treat their wives.

With a bell so resounding it rippled the calm,
    Which lay upon the town asleep.
So morning broke with a ‘Cling’ and a ‘Clang’;
    To folk, who broke with clinging sheets,
        The herald cried,
            So he was well.
V

He dismounts does the squire, from the brougham to ground,          
    His manly sighs consume dawn’s air.  
Of stately mould, quite at home with the hounds,
    This man looks well, with better fare
        Than his poor maid
            Or her poor man.

By a transport more humble than that of her lord’s,
    She’s made her way to seek her wares,
Pallid and slight, with dress floral but worn,
    This girl is sad, her plight far worse
        Than her rich sir’s,
            Or his good wife’s.

For the proud lady flaunts all her graces and airs;
    Through all she shoves with stride so brave.
Her dress is silk and her bonnets and pearls
    Help jerk the eyes of noble n’ knave,
        From their dear wives,
            To some dear’s wife.
VI

Now the parson meets ladies in tea rooms, so quaint,
    To utter one more “Did you know..?
And stress regret that the splendid old gent,
    Who passed away a week ago,
        Is no more seen ...
            Unlike his son.

Out of doors linger warm scents of baking, so fresh,
    The air is cursed by beggar, vexed,
Who learns that brats, though deprived of his years,
    Can yet afford to relish cakes,
        Then shed some crumbs
            Which plump rooks scoff.

Scarper they as stout publican unbolts oak doors,
    Through which soon pass those men who toil
In field, in workhouse at devilish chores,
    For gents whose shoes are never soiled,
        Nor shirt cuffs dark
            From soot or sweat.

VII

Well bespoke men are patrons of three fine hotels,
    Where chandelier and pillar pride
Palatial rooms of aroma and taste,
    And one, hard by the station’s side
        Gives Queen her rest
            On journey north.

When the doctor discusses his cases with judge,
    Slow prudent nod, of due reserve,
Bears witness to an agreement of sorts,
    On central points, as waiters serve
        Right healthy meals,
            With bread and wine.

At another, the bishop who dines with a king,
    Just might survey the town hall square,
Foe solemn mayor news of menace does bring.
    So local folk seek comfort where
        Peace may be found,
            Round off the square.

VIII

In its ground so pristine and with precincts sedate,
    There stands the sacred abbey, bold.
Gargoyles poke fun, they who, strangely ornate,
    Alone offend the hallowed soul,
        Who looks to find
            A fiend who looks.

Chilling senses of spaciousness haunt her wide aisles,
    Benath great windows’ spectral light:
Glass, stained by saints, allows carving and arch
    To nurture tranquil thoughts which bide
        Amidst the ills
            Of inner downs.

Ancient priory, tired, stares down with a sigh,
    On restless crypt’s still leaping vaults.
The gateway’s cove bids farewell from on high,
    And frames a “Cute” and narrow mall,
        From where descend
            The decent few.

IX

Precious relics sleep tight in their museum home,
    Yet mourn those troubled childhoods spent,
By gate, by moat, below rampart and walls,
    Which all the city did defend:
        With sword and gun
            They saw foes ‘gone’.

In the loom of the castle, the park, well at ease,
    Sees love-bound pairs waltz round their rings.
Whilst veterans slumber through Autumn’s cool breeze,
    They drift back to their fragrant Spring,
        Though youthful dreams
            Bring cloudy eyes.

Once the evergreen gardener has clobbered poor mole,
    Each petal lulls his seasoned touch,
And maidens, fresh from their riverside stroll,
    Soon decorate those twisty nooks,
        Which bend their path
            Straight back to town.

X

With a “Thud” of sad triumph all coach doors are
    Dull skies secure the close of day, slammed,
As Hardwicke hauls hefty carriages home,
    On silver rails, to wend his way
        Near hedge and field,
            Where fire draws fear.

Yet the sway of the bush is so lazy and slight,
    Once into dusk the train has roared.
Our shrew, now prey to the owl of the night,
    Does comb his fur against the stalks
Of weeping shrubs,
    In fading day.

Damp and darkened, the green of this quivering turf
    Will coax another lunar smile.
Whilst far off bells sound maternal concern,
    Dim silhouette and shadow wile
        Away dark hours ...
            And grasp for light.