A poem
Is an island
In a sea
Of stormy words
An oasis
In a hot desert
An outpost
On a distant shore
A warm light
On a cold night
A reflection of reality
An escape
Empty Shells
Empty shells lying
On an empty beach, each one
Washed clean by the sea.
Husks, all abandoned by life,
The same as the collector.
His mind empty now,
Taken on this very beach
Sixty years ago.
Taken by the empty shells
Still being found on the beach.
Inner light
In life’s dark places
I wear my own inner light
No-one can steal that
Lock 45, Rochdale Canal
‘twixt valley
And hills,
The halfway lock,
Sitting closely to
A long abandoned mill,
Contemplates
Long ago working boats
Metamorphing
Into brightly painted leisure boats.
Pike House Lock
Has seen it all
In its two centuries,
And will continue to,
Until its story ends.
©Alan McKean
Photos ©Joe Kershaw
Blog
will be posting a brand new poem shortly call “Lock 45, Rochdale Canal”
It was written based around its accompanying photographs taken by ©Joe Kershaw.
He also happens to be our grandson.
Ticking the last box
Another year
Of growing old
Gen Z want us dead,
Or so I’ve been told.
Another tick
As the calendar leers
Another addition
To increasing years.
But what pisses me off
As the calendar unlocks
Is that now on age surveys
I tick the last box.
Bugger!
©Alan McKean
First frost
Cold this morning
The traces of frost on the car seem at odds
With the gentle golds of fallen leaves.
With the cold, the leaves become eager
To leave the comfort of their branches
As though the frost is saying
“That’s it, clear off now”.
The early morning chorus of car engines,
Running while their owners clear the frost from windscreens
“Summer’s finished now” is the common rejoinder
As if it will never return.
In the park, sharp green lawns
Rapidly become a multicoloured shimmering layer of browns and golds
As the leaves left on the trees
Seek the comfort of their earthbound brothers.
First frost, first cold rain, first gentle snowflakes
All drive us to the year’s turnaround
As we already eagerly look for next summer
Wishing our lives away, season by season.
© Alan McKean
Tide’s out
Tide’s out,
Sand’s wet,
Footprints
Have a brief life,
Then vanish.
Birds a-plenty
Around my head,
Noisily screeching,
Noisily reading
The menu.
But me,
And my dog,
Don’t care,
As we slowly
Cross the beach
From here
To there.
©Alan McKean
Blog
Not posted on here for a while, as life takes the opportunity to move your priorities into various backwaters, blind alleys, and side streets, so what I’ll be doing today, is posting a few new poems, and maybe some photos, which I hope you’ll like.
Alan
Ghosts
(End of season)
Shadows of games gone by
Shades of the final “Last over”
Empty wicket
Empty benches
Empty pavilion
Lonely scoreboard
Kit washed (maybe)
Kit bag stored
Seasonal matters
All subject to Winter’s ravages.
Ghosts of the cricket season
Hover
Around the boundaries,
The bar,
And the memories
Of a summer now gone.
©Alan McKean, August 2026