Poem: Strand

beach foam landscape nature — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I walk out on to the strand
the only person around,
my shoes sinking some way
in to the fine washed sand.

The world of the town
is stacking high behind me
like multi-coloured pieces
of sweet rock and bubble gum

with the long line of beach huts
parading before them –
those little homes for the English
never wanting for their English tea

and comic newspapers
which they still read and believe.
But none of them are here now.
I’m looking out to the flat horizon,

a line of dark blue beyond
this stretch of local turquoise sea.
Somewhere around here,
maybe even on this easterly shore,

my DNA must have arrived
via Angle, Cimbri and La Tene,
a strand on this strand
in these islands afar.

copyright Francis Barker 2019

England’s Heritage: Saint John the Baptist Parish Church, Peterborough

Of course, the city of Peterborough’s greatest glory is its amazing cathedral, but that subject deserves a full article of its own.

One of the overlooked features of Peterborough, a growing city in the east of England, is the Parish church of Saint John the Baptist around the cathedral square.

Consecrated in 1409 during the reign of Henry IV, its close proximity to the cathedral and the modern shopping mall attraction of Queensgate, probably detracts large numbers of visitors. However, it is well worth a visit, and as is quite usual in England’s medieval heritage buildings, there are often some wonderful ‘hidden’ gems.

The south porch entrance is most interesting, particularly the roof in the above photograph.

The nave is very large and light with a rood screen.

There is also a wonderful reredos.

One of the most interesting features is this probable vestments cupboard, dated 1569, a wonderful piece of woodcarving, which I would think is limewood, similar in style to the plethora of such art produced in Germany during the same period.

The pulpit too had some intricate woodcarving, probably oak by the look of it, although I did not find a date on it, but I would assume it is later than the earlier piece.

There are even a couple of examples of medieval embroidery by the door.

words and photographs copyright Francis Barker 2019

Milly Reynolds – English Crime Fiction Author

man lights legs silhouette — Photo by Tookapic on Pexels.com

Here are some quintessentially English ebooks for you to read this summer, or at any time, by British based crime fiction author, Milly Reynolds.

These books won’t break the bank, they are not too long, and they are relatively easy reading – perfect on your kindle (and elsewhere) for that up and coming summer vacation, or at any time.

The main character is Mike Malone, now sleuthing the relatively quiet streets of Lincolnshire in the east of England.

However, just underneath this rather pleasant, amiable veneer of a peaceful small market town and its outlying farms, lie hints (sometimes stronger hints) of his murky and tragic past, which have a way of bubbling to the surface.

Here too, the sense of the tranquil, gentile country lifestyle, is misleading; it’s always vulnerable to some quirky crimes, leading Mike Malone on a ‘merry dance’ around his patch, seemingly in pursuit of tea and good home cooking as much as the murderer.

There are other books too, with a wide range of characters, such as Jack Sallt, a detective with a distinctly harder edge to his personality.

Milly Reynolds books on Amazon

Milly Reynolds on Smashwords

Milly Reynolds Blog

Milly Reynolds Website

Poem: ‘English Blue’ (for the fallen at Hastings and beyond)

stickingridge

Walk with me
into the grey breaking dawn

where that sticking ridge of blue –
an English blue

rolls on into soft distances
and strange dancing names

Stand with me
by those set whispering stones

in a steadfast line –
a sore English line

of rasping pipes and howling socks
mouthing our memory

like a warning to tomorrow
a land forlorn to all but itself

Then help me to bury him
not on some crying strand –

in firm English land
where hallows’ calls are grounded

our grief laid open
in the whitening bones of heroes

on this high scoured hill

first published in ‘Poetry 24’ June 23 2011

Milly Reynolds Crime Fiction Author – Happy Saint George’s Day

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Milly-Reynolds/e/B0056IY4OE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
http://www.amazon.com/Milly-Reynolds/e/B0056IY4OE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1366716704&sr=8-1

English crime fiction author, Milly Reynolds celebrates England’s national day, which, rather conveniently also happens to be Shakespeare’s birthday.
Milly’s books simply could not be more English!
So, to anyone who thinks about England, has English roots, or who would like to recognise the positive side of this small country, which has contributed so much to the world – have a great day!

I walk out on to the strand the only person around, my shoes sinking some way in to the fine washed sand.

The world of the town is stacking high behind me like multi-coloured pieces of sweet rock and bubble gum

with the long line of beach huts parading before them – those little homes for the English never wanting for their English tea

and comic newspapers which they still read and believe. But none of them are here now. I’m looking out to the flat horizon,

a line of dark blue beyond this stretch of local turquoise sea. Somewhere around here, maybe even on this easterly shore,

my DNA must have arrived via Angle, Cimbri and La Tene, a strand on this strand in these islands afar.

Rate this:

Share this:

Of course, the city of Peterborough’s greatest glory is its amazing cathedral, but that subject deserves a full article of its own.

Rate this:

Share this:

Here are some quintessentially English ebooks for you to read this summer, or at any time, by British based crime fiction author, Milly Reynolds.

Rate this:

Share this:

Walk with me into the grey breaking dawn

where that sticking ridge of blue – an English blue

rolls on into soft distances and strange dancing names

Stand with me by those set whispering stones

in a steadfast line – a sore English line

of rasping pipes and howling socks mouthing our memory

like a warning to tomorrow a land forlorn to all but itself

Then help me to bury him not on some crying strand –

in firm English land where hallows’ calls are grounded

our grief laid open in the whitening bones of heroes

on this high scoured hill

Rate this:

Share this:

Rate this:

Share this:

I walk out on to the strand
the only person around,
my shoes sinking some way
in to the fine washed sand.

The world of the town
is stacking high behind me
like multi-coloured pieces
of sweet rock and bubble gum

with the long line of beach huts
parading before them –
those little homes for the English
never wanting for their English tea

and comic newspapers
which they still read and believe.
But none of them are here now.
I’m looking out to the flat horizon,

a line of dark blue beyond
this stretch of local turquoise sea.
Somewhere around here,
maybe even on this easterly shore,

my DNA must have arrived
via Angle, Cimbri and La Tene,
a strand on this strand
in these islands afar.

Walk with me
into the grey breaking dawn

where that sticking ridge of blue –
an English blue

rolls on into soft distances
and strange dancing names

Stand with me
by those set whispering stones

in a steadfast line –
a sore English line

of rasping pipes and howling socks
mouthing our memory

like a warning to tomorrow
a land forlorn to all but itself

Then help me to bury him
not on some crying strand –

in firm English land
where hallows’ calls are grounded

our grief laid open
in the whitening bones of heroes