Christmas Tree Dreaming.

Burbage Church Christmas tree full of names.

 

Waterfall in Blue

Serpentine Waterfall, Buxton.

 

Fidler's Lum.

Fidler's Lum Waterfall, Buxton.

Duck Pond Dreams. (For David.) R.I.P.

My bother and I would sit beside the Duck Pond

in Grandma's Wood: he a worshipper of Ra and me a dreamer of Pan.

We would watch the moorhen busily building her nest

in the half submerged branches of a willow

among the emerging flag irises.

We did this every year when we were young.

The golden sun would glitter through

the pale green filigree leaves;

insects would buzz in the dusty, swirling rays of light

and all would seem peaceful with the world,

as if we were hidden away in Shangri-La.

We would roam the woods like wayfarers of the wild

searching for nests of robin and blackbird, wren and song thrush.

Once we discovered a long-tailed tits nest in a holly bush.

The domed nest of moss and lichens was interwoven

with silver and gold tinsel and somehow seemed enchanted.

Sometimes we found the water ouzels nest under the stone bridge.

It was the hunt that drew us on; and the prize was the secret knowledge.

On occasion we would roam further afield,

navigating the ochre-stained brook searching for finny trout,

which hung red and silver in refracted sheen.

Sometimes we would put up the odd snipe

sending it zigzagging through the spiky sedge.

But always we found the mallard’s nest;

that was the greatest prize of all.

Once they nested in a plant pot

next to farmer Renshaw's back door, at Otter's Hole;

another time behind our grandma’s woodshed

and sometimes on the Duck Pond, sharing the flag irises

with the suspicious moorhen.

We would haunt Bluebell Bank, sit by Fidler's Lum

and watch the musical water enter the pool;

pass through Primrose Valley to Edgemoor and Magpie Wood.

Then we would reach the old railway line

and the Black Tunnel, a place of ghosts and ghouls to me;

a place of fun and games to my brother.

Always the torch would mysteriously fail mid way

and darkness would close in, then the supernatural moans

of an old railway man would fill the tunnel with ancient echo

• yet the voice appeared strangely familiar.

Time passes and the brook still flows and the birds still sing,

but the tunnel is long bricked-up, the blackness and the spirits

trapped beneath Burbage Edge. Yet the dreamer of Pan

will keep lonely sentry beside the Duck Pond,

hoping to catch sight of the elusive moorhen

building her nest, remembering how it was in the hallowed days,

watching the sunlight glimmer

among the new-sprung, green leaves

like fragments of remembered dream.

Flash Fingers Lee. R.I.P

What is happening? We are all of a sudden losing some great people: musicians who helped to make our lives joyful. Help to make their music live on! Break out the vinyl and celebrate their creativity.

Alvin Lee

MARCH 6, 2013

WITH GREAT SADNESS WE HAVE TO ANNOUNCE THAT
ALVIN UNEXPECTEDLY PASSED AWAY EARLY THIS MORNING
AFTER UNFORSEEN COMPLICATIONS FOLLOWING A ROUTINE SURGICAL PROCEDURE.
Farewell Al. Saw you many times at Manchester Free Trade Hall. Fond memories.