‘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
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.
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
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,
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
Not posted on here for a while, as life takes the opportunity to move your priorities in 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
(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
Gentle susurration.
Green leaves
Still outnumber
The red
And the gold.
Green leaves
Hide
The invisible trains
As they rattle
‘twixt the twin Bridges
Of Hebden and Sowerby.
The final meeting
Of bat and ball
Rapidly approaches
At season’s end,
Leaving the wicket
To its winter recovery.
Boundary ropes
Will be coiled.
The benches
Will age.
The green
Will return.
Scout Rock
Hides
The approaching Autumn.
A new painting by Simon Footitt
Wonky houses
Held together
With bunting,
Flaky paint,
And tall cranes
Stairs are a nightmare
©Alan McKean
Still playing with my new camera, so I popped into the garden, and took a few macro shots.
