David Cherrett :: Acumen

Washing line

Death hangs in these old villages.
It billows up from time to time,
as laundered sheets do when it’s gusting.

These gusts cluster like buses; those buses
they no longer send to quiet
hillside stops like ours; cut off

the saline drip for such terminal
cases. Kinder, really, you see.
Let them go quietly. Besides

The young have mostly upped and gone
to bigger towns; found and lost
their for-the-weekend jobs.

And back home the laundry billows
once again; sheet-shrouds
blossom up. Two last month.

Each easing snuffs out memories.
The place meanwhile, retrenched,
has lost another smile of relevance.

David spends a lot of time in and writes from the Peak District. An
historian by education, he is particularly interested in the identity and relevance of the rural community as we enter the digital age.

Four in the morning talking

Four in the morning is a lost dog,
wandering down paths that used to lead to home
but now go nowhere.

Four am is a bed as cold as a failed marriage;
the February of the day
before the first birds or shards of light
discover the edge of the blind.

Four in the morning is the only house in the road;
is a passer-by with a voice like a dustcart,
yelling at a mobile phone;
the guest come far too early to be welcome.

Four am is neither day nor night, light nor dark,
neither fully awake nor asleep;
where problems grow like a cuckoo chick
in the nest of your mind.

The party is long since over, but four in the morning
still waits on the wet curb of the day
for the taxi that never comes,
the sleep that never comes, the slow tick tock till light.

Ann Alexander has published four collections of poetry, two from Peterloo and two from Ward Wood. Many of her poems were inspired by her 30 years living in W Cornwall. She has won first prize in the Mslexia, the Frogmore Prize, Bedford Open, and Grey Hen competitions, and was placed third in the BBC’s Poem for Britain competition. She lives in Stratford upon Avon now.

Black Dog

He’s grey now, grown old in my service:
werehound with inflamed, gummy eyes
who lopes head down, wheezing.
Together, grown stiff and slower,
we walk the dank ways. He can sniff out,
find for me, anything rotten or dead.

He has a wild streak, will leave me
for long jaunts alone; returns
when I call, hears that high whistle
beyond my ears. At other times
he comes without warning
as if I dream him awake:
then he’s eager, bounds at me barking,
fetches his leash, woos me
till I’m recaptured.

I no longer fear him, have learned
to welcome him, my dog-for-life.
He’s good news, brings renewal,
makes me pause
give myself full attention,
go to earth in his lair,
while he curls at my side, offering
long ears to be stroked, twitching
with possibilities.

He will see me out.
While he lives, so can I.

David Cherrett

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