Sholver Slack – (Home Ground)
There is a place upon a map,
An old map,
Called Sholver Slack.
It lives no more in local memory,
But this place makes a claim, a claim on me.
Foundations of dark sandstone mark the site
And a jumble of loose stones lie scattered round.
A seep of water sloughs the hill behind
And feeds a sedgy zone of boggy ground.
A stream runs down close by,
A youthful, unambitious stream.
The smooth green breast of Count Hill marks the sky,
To the right,
And Manchester reposes far away,
A distant sunlit sight.
This was the spot, the place – home ground –
Where lived a hand-loom weaver and his wife.
They raised their children, drew their water,
And troubled the quiet landscape
With the thrash of treadles
And all the many sounds of family life.
This was the view on which they’d rest their eyes
At end of day.
These were the fields edged with stone fences,
Hedged with thorns,
Where skylarks sang, where neighbours passed,
And where the children loved to play.
They saw from where the cotton came
And where their ‘pieces’ would be borne again.
They were my ancestors.
They were, perhaps, just simple folk,
But if not them, I would not be.
I am a part of what they were
And Sholver Slack’s a special place for me.
10/11 Jan 2008.