These poem-pictures from England’s heart come from a lost age, a lost speech and are record to a centuries-old way of English living which, but for a few remnants has all but been mown down by change in less than a lifetime.
On this CD, her first sound collection, you will discover a few of Avril’s earlier poem-stories but now wrapped in new work and wider views, set to music by composer, Michael Torbe, and with prose read by Heather Davies and Rosemary Richards.
On this CD, her first sound collection, you will discover a few of Avril’s earlier poem-stories but now wrapped in new work and wider views, set to music by composer, Michael Torbe, and with prose read by Heather Davies and Rosemary Richards.
Haselor Hill
Here, Magdalene’s may flowers strew
the springtime steps of village brides
as hawthorns’ watchful, sharpened thorn
keeps guard against
the plague’s return
to Haselor Hill.
Once, one sharp, cold unblossomed time,
on Christmas Day, Victoria’s reign,
with mistletoe and ivy trails
my great-grandparents climbed
to Mary’s church, upon the brow
of Haselor Hill
and there was singing, laughing round
as Thom and Hannah slid back down
to a long life of making-do,
four daughters and four worthy sons,
their marriage gift of loving brought
from Haselor Hill.
One hundred and a score years on
I found its steep and climbed aloft,
hearing the sound of wedding hymn
I stepped into the wood-spanned porch
glimpsed smiling faces, golden flowers,
on Haselor Hill.
‘Do you, Joanna, take this man?’
the vicar questioned the young bride
and my dead daughter, Hannah’s seed
and named Joanna, took my hand
and whispered,‘Yes’, and a bird sang
on Haselor Hill.
And out I went to summer’s haze
where a young woman questioned me
as to my birthright, names of mine,
then pointed to a village house
beside the foot
of Haselor Hill.
Back down I went, unlatched a gate,
knocked on a door and stepped inside,
there, in his chair, a man
with Hannah’s eyes and kindly smile,
her brother’s great-grandchild, at home
by Haselor Hill.
and in my hand there spilled warm grain,
rich harvest garnered from their seed
and, in my ears, the spinning songs,
of Earth’s first music, singing still,
as mine still sings
on Haselor Hill.
© Avril Newey
Here, Magdalene’s may flowers strew
the springtime steps of village brides
as hawthorns’ watchful, sharpened thorn
keeps guard against
the plague’s return
to Haselor Hill.
Once, one sharp, cold unblossomed time,
on Christmas Day, Victoria’s reign,
with mistletoe and ivy trails
my great-grandparents climbed
to Mary’s church, upon the brow
of Haselor Hill
and there was singing, laughing round
as Thom and Hannah slid back down
to a long life of making-do,
four daughters and four worthy sons,
their marriage gift of loving brought
from Haselor Hill.
One hundred and a score years on
I found its steep and climbed aloft,
hearing the sound of wedding hymn
I stepped into the wood-spanned porch
glimpsed smiling faces, golden flowers,
on Haselor Hill.
‘Do you, Joanna, take this man?’
the vicar questioned the young bride
and my dead daughter, Hannah’s seed
and named Joanna, took my hand
and whispered,‘Yes’, and a bird sang
on Haselor Hill.
And out I went to summer’s haze
where a young woman questioned me
as to my birthright, names of mine,
then pointed to a village house
beside the foot
of Haselor Hill.
Back down I went, unlatched a gate,
knocked on a door and stepped inside,
there, in his chair, a man
with Hannah’s eyes and kindly smile,
her brother’s great-grandchild, at home
by Haselor Hill.
and in my hand there spilled warm grain,
rich harvest garnered from their seed
and, in my ears, the spinning songs,
of Earth’s first music, singing still,
as mine still sings
on Haselor Hill.
© Avril Newey
