Ann Drysdale
Without Benefit of Wheels
It’s a different perspective, being without wheels.
I run along the bottom of the gorge
now that the sides of it are denied me.
My journeys are taken on someone else’s wheels;
a Stagecoach ride, rumbling into the sunset
or a simple act of kindness from a friend.
But lately there is much freezing of the wheels,
the lines of boot-to-bonnet constipated
by complications of the road’s digestion.
A new road is coming to free the wheels.
Four lanes; two up, two down, replace the three
where once they dodged each other merrily.
A dotted line used to divide the wheels,
determining which had the middle ground,
and kept them spinning to a simple tune.
But this, alas, did not please all the wheels.
Some of them wanted unimpeded speed
and now the work goes on to make it so.
Meanwhile the lights and cones collect the wheels
in elongated batches. Hold them muttering,
nostalgic for the old freedom of three.
Violence …
Roadmakers tear the earth with toothy buckets
politely turning aside to dollop the gobbets
over their shoulders before bending again
to take the next enthusiastic bite.
There is a glee in the telling of the stories:
The men whose horse had stopped (perhaps to graze)
who cut stiff briars to teach a bloody lesson
not to the horse, but to the poor old woman
who had passed by and therefore must have cursed
the creature Caught her and whipped her till she bled.
That’s what you do to witches. Shakespeare said.
Roadmakers seem to be having a hard job
breaking the old walls that held back the mountain
when everyone assumed that the new road
was destined to be as it was forever.
There is a glee in the telling of the stories.
John Dawson, teacher at the ironworks school,
strict disciplinarian, had three pets,
a cat, a jackdaw and a little dog.
He simply disappeared, but they were found,
the cat, the jackdaw and the little dog,
in the pond that he walked past every day.
Tied up together in a gunnysack.
His cat. His jackdaw. And his little dog.
Roadmakers tackle a leftover lump,
Lower their cranes to peer helplessly at it
Muster their men to harry it with hammers
Call in the old guard with their whining drills…
… diggers and tellers punch the air with their message,
“See what I did there? Gotcher, gotcher, gotcher.”
Roadmakers tear the earth with toothy buckets
politely turning aside to dollop the gobbets
over their shoulders before bending again
to take the next enthusiastic bite.
There is a glee in the telling of the stories:
The men whose horse had stopped (perhaps to graze)
who cut stiff briars to teach a bloody lesson
not to the horse, but to the poor old woman
who had passed by and therefore must have cursed
the creature Caught her and whipped her till she bled.
That’s what you do to witches. Shakespeare said.
Roadmakers seem to be having a hard job
breaking the old walls that held back the mountain
when everyone assumed that the new road
was destined to be as it was forever.
There is a glee in the telling of the stories.
John Dawson, teacher at the ironworks school,
strict disciplinarian, had three pets,
a cat, a jackdaw and a little dog.
He simply disappeared, but they were found,
the cat, the jackdaw and the little dog,
in the pond that he walked past every day.
Tied up together in a gunnysack.
His cat. His jackdaw. And his little dog.
Roadmakers tackle a leftover lump,
Lower their cranes to peer helplessly at it
Muster their men to harry it with hammers
Call in the old guard with their whining drills…
… diggers and tellers punch the air with their message,
“See what I did there? Gotcher, gotcher, gotcher.”
Up and Over
A stone that lay arse-uppards in the dirt
is turned to feel the sunshine on its face
and for a moment, dries and lies inert,
held in a temporary state of grace
until the shadow of the great machine
swings out across the shining sky again
taking great liberties with what has been
to make a topsy-turvy mise en scène.
Rocks that for centuries have lain below
spirited suddenly into the light
while others, wind-caressed and lichened, go
below, to lie forever out of sight.
Great teeth grab gobfuls, flinging them away,
Hoisting and hurling with a great Wahey!
A stone that lay arse-uppards in the dirt
is turned to feel the sunshine on its face
and for a moment, dries and lies inert,
held in a temporary state of grace
until the shadow of the great machine
swings out across the shining sky again
taking great liberties with what has been
to make a topsy-turvy mise en scène.
Rocks that for centuries have lain below
spirited suddenly into the light
while others, wind-caressed and lichened, go
below, to lie forever out of sight.
Great teeth grab gobfuls, flinging them away,
Hoisting and hurling with a great Wahey!
Ironing Things
In winter, when the leaves are off the trees,
you get a good view of what’s left of it.
Then I, aboard the Stagecoach, scan the hills,
noting the iron-things, the precious past
of the land wherein I am a latecomer.
Nominal vaguenesses of “kit” and “gear”.
Precarious dram-roads with a Grande Corniche
where to-and-fro defeated up-and-down.
Echoes of times when Europe looked this way
to hail the captains of the industry.
The roadmakers, having laundered the gorge,
pummelling the worst stains from the old highway,
spreading green cloth and stitching silver braid.
have found the crumpled bits in hearts and history
and are intent on ironing them out.
There will be bridges, steel but not stainless,
forms that will decorously oxidise
so as to rub the memory of iron
into the healing wound, things scabbed forever
in a condition of perpetual rust.
I didn’t think that was a good idea,
though if real locals like it, let it be.
I’ll try to plug my ears against the noise;
a hollow banging on a deadlocked door
and a half-hearted cry – “Bring out your dead!”
Where are they now?
The Drum and Monkey – when did we lose sight of it?
That other good Italian restaurant.
The Little Chef, the pink house to the right of it;
it takes a while to realise they’ve gone.
The special point of view where the canal
ducked underneath the road, popped out again
and for a moment seemed to run uphill.
The left-hand turn onto the little lane…
There was security in passing them,
ticking them off like moorings on a river.
We travel now from simply missing them
to realising that they’ve gone forever.
History happens at the moment when
Where are they now? becomes Where were they then?
Things to Come
Flying along a road as yet unmade
through countryside not yet as it will be
while the creator of the plan displayed
the vision of his tarmac artery.
Being familiar with an artist’s fear
What if? Yes, but… No, no – that isn’t it…
I was amazed to see the engineer
claiming a future target as a hit.
In days when men built for a different master
a mason would have been of the same mind,
outthinking every possible disaster,
cherishing what he needs to leave behind.
A green cathedral; rubble, rock and sod
crafted to the greater glory of God.
Thoughts about Clydach Gorge. From Annie.
I have been interested in the legendary people of the Gorge, their voices and those of the people who made them into legends.
John Dawson, the hated teacher at the ironworks school who disappeared on his walk home and was never found. Only his beloved pets – a dog a cat and a magpie – were discovered, drowned in a sack in a lake. This called to (my) mind the reported cruelties of the Chartists on their wicked way to Newport.
Rudolf Hess, detained in Maindiff Court, who spent time exploring the countryside. He was a painter, so did he paint here? What did he paint if he did? What might he have painted if he didn’t?
Joshua Morgan who jumped off Crawshay Bailey’s train to change the points and the engine severed his foot. His grave is in Llanelli Hill Church, but is his foot in it?
Joseph Bolitho Johns, know in Australia as “Moondyne Joe” who worked in the ironworks and got arrested for theft in Chepstow. He was tried and jailed and deported to Oz where he became famous for being a jailbreaker as well as a bushranger. His story is of elsewhere fame after a small local notoriety.
Who was Harry Isaac of the pont?
Also the idea of the sly subtlety of the change wrought by the new road. The difficulty, for one who doesn’t drive, is remembering how each piece was before it became what it is. Where was the Little Chef and who moved the pink house…?
The necessity of belief in the beauty of the then-to-now of it, of trust in the beauty of change. May they not be mutually exclusive.
I have been interested in the legendary people of the Gorge, their voices and those of the people who made them into legends.
John Dawson, the hated teacher at the ironworks school who disappeared on his walk home and was never found. Only his beloved pets – a dog a cat and a magpie – were discovered, drowned in a sack in a lake. This called to (my) mind the reported cruelties of the Chartists on their wicked way to Newport.
Rudolf Hess, detained in Maindiff Court, who spent time exploring the countryside. He was a painter, so did he paint here? What did he paint if he did? What might he have painted if he didn’t?
Joshua Morgan who jumped off Crawshay Bailey’s train to change the points and the engine severed his foot. His grave is in Llanelli Hill Church, but is his foot in it?
Joseph Bolitho Johns, know in Australia as “Moondyne Joe” who worked in the ironworks and got arrested for theft in Chepstow. He was tried and jailed and deported to Oz where he became famous for being a jailbreaker as well as a bushranger. His story is of elsewhere fame after a small local notoriety.
Who was Harry Isaac of the pont?
Also the idea of the sly subtlety of the change wrought by the new road. The difficulty, for one who doesn’t drive, is remembering how each piece was before it became what it is. Where was the Little Chef and who moved the pink house…?
The necessity of belief in the beauty of the then-to-now of it, of trust in the beauty of change. May they not be mutually exclusive.