Chinewrde Tales - Avril Newey
Stories of family and place are not only our personal memories of things past, but also form the matrix of our, and our country’s, present and future.
Individual and society’s patterns of family, community experience and journey create the template for what affirms us in who we are, and confront us with what we need to change, as what we pass on will mould the template for the generations that follow. If there are no stories then how will we, our descendants and our country learn what has grown best or worst in us ?
These stories from this one-thousand year old town of Kenilworth, Warwickshire, speak to us all.
Individual and society’s patterns of family, community experience and journey create the template for what affirms us in who we are, and confront us with what we need to change, as what we pass on will mould the template for the generations that follow. If there are no stories then how will we, our descendants and our country learn what has grown best or worst in us ?
These stories from this one-thousand year old town of Kenilworth, Warwickshire, speak to us all.
The Way To Ashow
for first friends
Alan, Jean, Dawn, Cynthia,
Merrick, Ruth and me,
jam and fishpaste sandwiches
Tizer and cold tea.
On the way to Ashow
trying not to run,
mothers following after,
laughing in the sun.
On the way to Ashow
between the lichen banks,
whilst Dads are in the factories
forging guns and tanks
or far away, still fighting
to save us from ‘The Hun’
while we are hopping, skipping
and practising our fun.
Willowherb and foxglove
campion, dock, ox-eye,
lady’s mantle, bedstraw,
all touch as we pass by.
Meadowsweet and bramble,
goosegrass, sorrel, rose,
pulling at our fingers
where the summer grows.
On the way to Asceshot
where the fletchers walked
and, after them, stout horses
dragged clay carts to the wharf.
With lads and men a’shovin’
and a’runnin up and down
to get their sticky treasure
on board for Gloucester Town.
But we danced that way to Ashow
between those hay-hazed fields,
gay poppies in the furrows,
mist-scabious, their shields
and when we got to Ashow
there was hop-scotch on the street
with nodding from the doorsteps
and the shop with couponed sweets.
Then, by the river-bank, the beach
with pebbles, grass and trout
and knitted bags to open
to get our costumes out
and plate and bottle, cup and spoon
and gossiping and tears
from nettles stings and dock leaves
and … after seventy years
do you who go to Ashow
along that windy way
still hear us, calling, laughing,
small children out at play?
Can you glimpse the purple heaven
in the sky above the arch
where the rhododendrons blossomed
along the carriage path?
Yes? then take along to Ashow
your song that must be sung
and your sorrows will all vanish
and you’ll once again be young
and when you get to Ashow
remember us, who came
and plaited dreams in Ashow
and sit, and do the same.
© Avril Newey
for first friends
Alan, Jean, Dawn, Cynthia,
Merrick, Ruth and me,
jam and fishpaste sandwiches
Tizer and cold tea.
On the way to Ashow
trying not to run,
mothers following after,
laughing in the sun.
On the way to Ashow
between the lichen banks,
whilst Dads are in the factories
forging guns and tanks
or far away, still fighting
to save us from ‘The Hun’
while we are hopping, skipping
and practising our fun.
Willowherb and foxglove
campion, dock, ox-eye,
lady’s mantle, bedstraw,
all touch as we pass by.
Meadowsweet and bramble,
goosegrass, sorrel, rose,
pulling at our fingers
where the summer grows.
On the way to Asceshot
where the fletchers walked
and, after them, stout horses
dragged clay carts to the wharf.
With lads and men a’shovin’
and a’runnin up and down
to get their sticky treasure
on board for Gloucester Town.
But we danced that way to Ashow
between those hay-hazed fields,
gay poppies in the furrows,
mist-scabious, their shields
and when we got to Ashow
there was hop-scotch on the street
with nodding from the doorsteps
and the shop with couponed sweets.
Then, by the river-bank, the beach
with pebbles, grass and trout
and knitted bags to open
to get our costumes out
and plate and bottle, cup and spoon
and gossiping and tears
from nettles stings and dock leaves
and … after seventy years
do you who go to Ashow
along that windy way
still hear us, calling, laughing,
small children out at play?
Can you glimpse the purple heaven
in the sky above the arch
where the rhododendrons blossomed
along the carriage path?
Yes? then take along to Ashow
your song that must be sung
and your sorrows will all vanish
and you’ll once again be young
and when you get to Ashow
remember us, who came
and plaited dreams in Ashow
and sit, and do the same.
© Avril Newey
