Passing time
In the company
Of memories
That stretch back
To the dawn of you,
As you hope
That your head
Has enough room
For the memories
Yet to be made,
As you sit
At the wrong end
Of the calendar,
Hoping
You’ve left enough room
August 2025
Category: General
Rawtenstall Cemetery
God it’s a steep climb!
If you can make it to the Chapel
You’ll not be a resident for a while.
The sun reflects off the gold lettering
Somebody went to sleep in such and such a year
Somebody else passed over, when?
Sleep well Nan.
One bench to sit on, and that’s at the top
Facing the new plots.
Still, it is peaceful, restful
The freedom to sit and ponder “Grandma’s Garden”
Some sad graves, a little girl,
Born, died 23rd December
Poor lass, poor parents, bastard Christmas.
Another, five months old
A stone slab mourning unfulfilled aspirations.
Muslim, Chinese, Christian, Jewish, no religion
All here - all locals
All Lancashire lads and lasses.
Thanks for allowing me to spend lunch with you
Tara then
September 2003
Year
The year turns
Another twelve months gone.
Another year older
Whether you’re seven or seventy.
Winter’s cold fingers
Touch your soul.
Spring’s gentle fingers
Nudge the gardens early shoots sunward
Summers hot fingers scorch the land,
But hurries the harvest into the barns.
Autumn’s tired fingers
Gently strips the trees of life
The year turns
Another twelve months gone.
November 2003
Nature
Nature,
Abhorring the vacuous,
Throws her clock away,
Thinking
“Let them manage,
There’ll be another species along
……………… soon”
Rattle of a simple can
Clang
Ping
Chime
Ring
The noise of rain
On empty can
Tintinnabulatory sounds
Not made by man
Ah – how sweet
The Rattle of a Simple Can
©Alan McKean
I wrote this piece after listening to heavy rain falling on my steel garden shed.
Tick here
I find it quite amusing that, in order to verify that I am a human being when commenting on websites and such like, I have to tick a box generated by a computer.
ah well………………..
I find it quite ironic
that
in order to prove
that
I'm a human being
that
I have to tick a box
that
asks me to tell a robot
that
I am human
©Alan McKean
Falling leaves
A close friend of mine died recently. We had been friends since we started secondary school in 1963. This poem is for our generation.
Slowly,
The 1950s trees
Shed their leaves,
As autumn
Turns into winter
Soon,
these trees
Will be empty,
Leaving only fading memories
Of leaves
That once
Glowed brightly
In the sun
©Alan McKean,
December
I’ve not posted much these last few weeks – been a bit busy, so today I spent some time on social media promoting my latest poetry collection. I tend to promote my books using a poem, seeing as that is what I write, so here it comes. First the picture, and then the poem.
CHRISTMAS BOOK
it’s Christmas time
it might be worth
having another look
you never know
you might enjoy
reading my new book
on Amazon
for a few quid
to ease your Christmas cash flow
a pic’s below
and up above
the link is in my bio
©Alan McKean
so now we see how (or if) that worked
Future Imperfect
Standing
On the edge of forever
Looking
Forward to my past
Wondering
Where my days went
Stumbling
In the blackness of age
Seeking
A friendly ear
Seeing
My words die in flames
Wanting
To shout them out loudly
Whilst
Standing
On
The
Outside,
At
The
Edge
Of
forever
Rossall Beach
Feathers meld
Silver winged gull
Rides the tide
Small, lazy waves
Gently kiss the sand,
The tide still comes in though
Fisherman waits,
Patiently,
And in the distance,
Across the bay,
The Lake District
Just is.
Powered boat
Races the tide
Along the shoreline