The Sea

 I was born in Blackpool in 1958 and there is nothing that inspires me more than a drive along the promenade - car windows open, wind blowing the waves. My darling Dad, (who was also a 'sandgrown'un'), told me that if you ever feel low, there is nothing better than the air at the end of North pier. He said, "It's worth a pound a bucketful". 

For all its beauty, the sheer power of the sea is awesome. I remember the devastation of the tsunami that hit Sri Lanka one Boxing Day. When the sea invades the land, there is only one winner. Man has no defence against it. We can build walls, create sea defences but ultimately we are susceptible to its will. 

On 28 – 29 October 1927, serious flooding happened in the Fleetwood area. More than 1,800 properties became inundated with sea water and sadly, six people lost their life. At the time it was the worst flood that the Fylde Coast had ever experienced.

It was what you might call a ‘perfect storm’. The winds were gale force 12, reaching 80mph. The 32′ tide was about seven feet higher than predicted. Most of the town was under seawater following this flooding in Fleetwood in 1927.

Drafted in to help was a fleet of small rowing boats, many of them borrowed from Stanley Park lake. The boats ferried supplies to the hundreds of people stranded at home, while they were unable to get out.

The deep water persisted for three days before it started to subside.

My poem was inspired by the 1927 flood. I wrote it during my spell as Wyre Poet in Residence in 2013.

And Oh The Sea

And oh the sea,
the sand filled sea
that crowds into the estuary,
raising levels as it flows,
flooding marshland cratered lows.
Where herring gulls send piercing cries,
cutting through the cloud swept skies.
Drifting, lifting, ebbing ‘caws’,
shrill between the breakers’ roars.
Jostling on the sandbank mound,
       beaking mackerel
       mashed in mud,
with violent currents swirling round.

And oh the sea,
the wretched sea
that raises crests to break upon
the mother cradling little one,
who waves eternally from shore
to seamen lost forevermore.
An older child arm braced to chest,
skirts clinging to their cold bronze legs,
a wind-break to the red-legg’d terns,
       wading surf
       filled with foam
gripping sand-logged esplanade.

And oh the sea,
the destructive sea
that overflowed through cobbled row
to flood the cottages below
and lifted logs from port to town
breaking doors
and pouring down,
filling all with filth and grime:
Retreating left a salty line
       engraved on walls
       etched on hearts
in memory for all of time.

And oh the sea,
the abundant sea
that brought the trawlers’ catch to land
to feed the hungry factory hand
to women weaving trusty nets,
with fateful hearts and faint regrets,
to catch the hake for fish and chips
to open mouths and licking lips,

sustenance piled on a plate
       or newsprint wrap
       with mushy peas.
It kept the war torn Nation great.

And oh the sea,
the turbulent sea
that ebbs and flows through history.
Ships at sail, then pleasure steam,
trips that built the childhood dream.
       Bringer of happiness
       taker of life
widow-maker of Fleetwood wife.

And oh the sea,
the relentless sea
       with power to shape our destiny
it takes the very breath from me.

Thanks for reading. Adele

 

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Oxygen

These past weeks have made us more aware than ever before of the need and value of oxygen. As a malevolent respiratory virus has caused devastation for thousands in our country and across the world, many have been struggling to breathe and have needed urgent oxygen treatment in hospital. We heard our own Prime Minister speak of how he needed litres and litres of oxygen pumped into his lungs so that he could live.

At the same time as this disease has left many mourning the loss of loved ones, the accompanying lockdown has seemingly made the skies bluer and the air clearer. It has enabled me and those in our household to enjoy the outdoor air more than ever before, with walks and bike rides around our beautiful Stanley Park, Salisbury Woodland and along the coast.

 I wonder also if this enforced time of lockdown has made us rethink what is really important? The phrase ‘oxygen of publicity’ is sometimes used to describe those who seek media attention because they require it to keep their celebrity status before people’s eyes. Whereas, those who work in often unnoticed and unrecognised roles, don’t get the attention their work deserves.

Equally, having more time has allowed me to read and write poetry, which is part of my ‘oxygen’ for daily living. I came across a quote which inspired the poem which accompanies this blog: "Plant trees, they give us two of the most crucial elements for our survival: Books and oxygen."  A Whitney Brown.

Touch wood

In this neck of the woods

I put down my poetry book

and am in a wood in minutes:

sycamore, ash, maple and oak

and no two trees are the same.

Generous lungs of the earth,

they help the planet breathe.

I hope to draw their oxygen

to my respiratory tree

so this heart can beat and grieve.

I want to hug the greying beech,
a name that shares the root
with the Old English word for book.
I crave that reassuring touch,
We’re not out of the woods yet.

Trees outlive us and I envy them
their permanence. They have the
wood on us as nothing else
on earth can be said
to look so beautiful when its dead.

There are trees that have fallen
and those that are felled. Dried
and seasoned, they’re cherished
lovingly and are smoothly planed
to a finish that is silken.

They are the ones that will furnish our lives,
the ones that will remembered for good
and ones which may become a coffin
for us to hide our bodies in.
Touch wood.
 
Thank you for reading and stay ‘oxygen safe’.

David Wilkinson

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