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Deep in the Valley of Lost Things by Bean Sawyer

I dropped a button. Maybe it was careless – maybe.
We constantly leak, leave bits of ourselves wherever we go
even when we tread softly, tiptoe
barely leaving footprints. I built my home
on your bedsprings and rusty hinge,
unearthed your spout in the veg patch
found you washed up on the shore.
I gather your scattered remains of carelessness,
tarnished, dented, smoothed by time
hold your treasures in my hands and wonder
if maybe – maybe one day,
someone will find my lost things too.

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Elsie’s Caff by Susan Osborne

Ther was an owd biddy from Lancs
Who was famous fer cookin’ ‘am shanks,
A treat fer a Sunday,
Leftovers on Monday,
Fer t’ workers who always said, ‘Thanks!’

Fer Elsie’s mid-week beef stew,
Ther was always an ‘elluva queue,
Lemon meringue pie,
Was a sight fer sore eyes,
A temptation fer more than a few.

‘Er rhubarb an’ custard was ace,
Folk came from all over t’ place,
They piled in to t’ caff,
It wer served wi’out faff,
As long as the diners said ‘grace,’

In winter ‘er broth was a winner,
Yer couldn’t ‘ave tasted owt better,
When t’ cowd wind blew,
Elsie’s broth warmed yer thru,
Wi’ ‘ot crusty bread fer yer dinner.

When t’ Bramley apples arrived,
Excellence could not be denied,
Wi’ ice cream or custard
This pie was a must ‘ave,
A real taste of Heaven, no lie.

Owd Elsie alas kicked the bucket,
Caff shut till new owners took it,
They spruced up the venue,
Kept the same menu,
But we all missed the way Elsie cooked it!

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Ode to Pendle by Susan Osborne

Pendle oh Pendle
Shrouded in mist,
Emerging from the heat haze
Where sunrays kissed
Shadows on the hillside
Under grey blue skies,
Commanding the horizon
With ominous majesty.

Etched in memories
That familiar presence,
Soothing yet tainted
With History’s essence.

Oh how I miss when it did feed
Wild imagination of youth in me.

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My poem by Izzy B, Year 7 LGGS

It was a cold, frost bitten autumn early morning the high school students stood,

shivering at there dreaded bus stops, waiting.

They could hear the birds waking from there humble slumbers.

As the lopsided buses wound their way through the maze of tangles roads the students shivered inside the

belly of the bus franticly doing homework that was due that very day.

As they passed the places they had know since they were born their eyes filled with sadness

As what their world had become

Litter was filling the roads, trees, bushes and more

There special places where they had made so many memories was now covered in

Litter.

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Window by Mary Hodges

I gaze at the view as I sit by my window.
The snowdrops are over, the primrose in flower.
The riverside footpath is busy with walkers
Enjoying spring sunshine, dodging spring showers.

I pull up my scarf as I sit by my window
It’s dank and it’s chill and the rain’s beating down.
No-one is passing in this bleak November
The river is rising, a torrent of brown.

I watch the bright scene as I sit by my window.
The snow on the ground gleams white in the sun.
Children rush out to shout and throw snowballs
Sliding and sledging and snowmen are fun.

Once I could run and walk by the river
And climb all the hills and hear all the birds
Now all I can do is watch from my window
And treasure the memories I picture in words.

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1. HARELAWS (on the higher ridge, between field and fell, abandoned around 1885) by Antony Christie

imagine:
a wedge of rain,
a prism of drops,
the possibilities of thrown light
through a frame in a gable end
that is both sides sky

as more than
two of the four walls
unlucky storms and the most
observant of the valley bred masons
have tumbled to rubble,
built into new barns,

but a jamb of
shaped stone poised
now three degrees off true
and blocks of great limestone built
staircaselike at the north west corner
still balance a sliver of house

towards the
waxing moon, the sunrise
in spring and autumn, and those rare alignments
of celestial orbits when sun and moon
play firelight and darkness
through the dreamt glass.

so stasis earned?
no, nothing is certain now,
for a rowan seed lodged close in a pile of muck
at tupping time some twenty years ago,
bent to a full tree, spreads
greedy limbs and roots.

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ISSUES by Roger Allen

when told i was given an issue
i stayed in a hospital with pale green walls
plenty of conversation laced with cold coffee
between what was known as treatments

somewhere something or someone
kept knocking
but my private thinking
was only displayed when walking or watching

out there the eternal motorway
was sounding through the nearby woods

when getting over being so confused
for respite the nurse took me
to walk in the park across the road

there the landscape was pleasantly unchanged
since the time you and i walked together
as lovers when the sky was warm
when the bandstand sounded out a jolly tune
which i am sure we danced to

but now there is no future or returning
to our house to drink some wine
and giggle at ourselves

for when i am full of the issues
all the horizons are grey wrapped around drapes
things circle like may flies refusing to stop

that stuff is not me
it delivers what the world is doing at the time
settling as i sleep into the 4am curfew

now very little is said about that past
particularly when digging the soil
to plant sweetcorn and daisies on the allotment

there to face out the issue with a
pleasant madness that suits me fine

( i don’t blame you for not visiting
i don’t think I would visit simply because
i would not know what to say )