Moi Village o' Widdlin'ton

Jennospot 115  Widdlington

The village o' Widdlin'ton, where Oi live, is a noice little place; that is, if'n yew don't take too much notice of some of the people wot live there.

It's got a church, a chapel, a post office, a parish 'all, two pubs, a garage (wot ain't open 'cos of the war) an' six shops. The post office is run by Phoebe's muvver, but Phoebe an' me don't get along, so Oi ain't goin' ter show yew 'er picture.

The biggest shop in Widdlin'ton is Mr Hibberd's General Store. Mr Hibberd is a corporal in the 'Ome Guard, wot takes up a good bit of 'is toime nowadays, so 'is shop isn't always open. Still an' all, 'ee's mostly real obligin', 'cept that 'ee's always puttin' 'is spectacles down someplace where 'ee can't find 'em again. 'Ee don't see too good wivvout 'em.

There's over fings too, loike the Mill by the river, an' the Manor wot stands in a big private park. The Mill ain't workin' no more; not since the top bit got burned out jus' before the war, but there's a good swimmin' place just downstream of it.

Oi ought ter mention that there's two schools. Oi go ter one of 'em, wiv moi bruvver. The ovver one's fer the older kids, so Oi ain't goin' ter say nuffink more about it, not 'ere any'ow.

One of the pubs is called the Cock Inn. It's got a picture of a red rooster 'anging from a post by the front door. Whenever "Dummy" gets ter earn a shillin' or two, 'ee goes off ter The Cock, an' when 'ee comes out again, 'ee sometimes gets ter singin' an' shoutin' in The Street, wot gets 'im shut in the lock up fer a while.

The church is real old. It's called St Marys. There's a statue of 'er in a niche over the main porch. Yew wouldn't know it were 'er, 'cept that she's got a baby in 'er arms, cos she's been standin' up there so long, she's all worn away from the weather. Still an' all, she's the only one wot ain't lost 'er 'ead. 'cos there's lots o' ovver statues in various places around the church, but not one of 'em as got an 'ead. They say as 'ow it were Oliver Cromwell wot knocked their 'eads off four 'undred years ago, but wot 'ee 'ad against statues Oi dunno; after all, they're statues of saints, wot is more'n could be said of some o' them folk wot live in the village.

Any'ow, if'n yew'd loike ter know more about moi village, yew c'd always take a look at: http://www.peterstjohn.net/index_18.htm an' then yew c'd start clickin' around on the map. If'n yew want, that is. Yew c'd even come an' visit, but that'd take a bit more organising…

Mountain Train

Jennospot 114  Mountain Train

By special request, Oi've been asked ter put a poem up on moi blog; so 'ere it is: It's by Peter St John. Oi 'ope yew loike it. Any'ow there's a noice picture...

Mountain Train

Chuffing upward from the plain

Skyward climbs the charm-like train;

Pinion tic tac on the rack.

Watch-like, clock-like, mounts the track;

Mountain goat with iron wheels;

Rounding bends with squeaks and squeals;

Tunnelling the buttress through:

Just another cheese to chew.

The valley seems a toy-town place

Seen from heaven's peer-down space.

Droll-doll chalets, sprinkled sparse,

Spick upon the cow-cud grass.

Tie by tie, the rails astride,

Ladder up the mountain side;

Thinly-lean, a two-pronged harrow,

Swissly-clean and spindly-narrow,

Parallel they never meet

Except... up in the sky, to greet

A Gruyère moon; looming there

In the crystal Swiss-wine air.

Or at the sun, join in one,

Fusing from a switchback run

 On an undulating way.

Pop-stop eardrums feel the rise;

We ride together to the skies.

No more trees; they're left behind...

High, the wind is too unkind.

Squeezing on a freezing bridge;

Ease along a heart-stop ridge;

Where peaks in this vicinity

Point us to infinity.

Down below all nods and plods:

At Heaven's portal we are gods.

And god-like, one would higher go;

Higher than the peaks and snow.

But... down one must towards the dust,

In wonder-lusting train unjust.

Entrusting Hope to justify

The return ticket from the sky.

The single strand now splits in two;

Divides One into me and you.

Down we rumble, charnel bundle...

Mindful as we earthwards trundle

Of rapture; but euphoria fails...

Fading on descending rails.

Below the air is thick.