Wildflower Planting

lornasmithers:

Update on the Friends of Greencroft Valley’s Wildflower Meadow planting.

Originally posted on FRIENDS OF GREENCROFT VALLEY:

Over the last couple of weeks the Friends of Greencroft Valley planted 150 wildflower plugs in our developing meadow. The plugs were kindly purchased for us by South Ribble Borough Council.

Wildflower Plugs

Lesser Knapweed Centaurea nigra 15
Field Scabious Knautia arvensis 15
Oxeye Daisy Leucanthemum vulgare 30
Common Bird’s-foot-trefoil Lotus corniculatus 15
Cowslip Primula veris 15
Devil’s-bit-scabious Succisa pratensis 15
Marsh-marigold Caltha palustris 15
Mayflower Cardamine pratensis 15
Water Avens Geum rivale 15
Ragged-robin Lychnis flos-cuculi 15
Purple-loosestrife Lythrum salicaria 15
Marsh Woundwort Stachys palustris 15
Wood Anemone Anemone nemorosa 15
Giant Bellflower Campanula latifolia 15
Pignut Conopodium majus 15

Damp Patch

At the bottom of the meadow where it is wettest we planted water avens, ragged robin and marsh woundwort alongside the yellow irises.

Middle Patch

In the middle patch we put purple loosetrife, ox-eye daisies, lady’s schmock and cowslips.

Top Patch

Near the top we planted devil’s bit scabious, lesser knapweed and the rest of…

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Potato Field

Middleforth Green, 1851

Pulling it up
like a mandrake screaming,
looking it in the eye,
giving it a face,
its cold weight
like the stone
in my belly
that never had life,
never had a face.
Wrapping it up
in a handkerchief,
cradling it,
talking to it softly,
my little homunculus
will never have a life
the workhouse can take away.

*This poem won the Preston Poets Society Pomfret Cup on Thursday the 17th of April

Site of Potato Field, Middleforth Green

Site of Potato Field, Middleforth Green

Manor Cottages, formerly Penwortham Workhouse which was home to pauper girls in 1851

Manor Cottages, formerly Penwortham Workhouse which was home to pauper girls in 1851

Mary of the Marsh

Enduring years of disconnection,
incredulity of stars,
anger beneath the heavens,
she scathed the priests and walked alone,
drifting among chapels, knowing she didn’t belong,
her robes of night fell on soft rushes.

They say she walked along the marsh.
They say she walked out to the river.
They say she looked out to the sea.

In the damp, dark parishes
paradise was never hers,
she walked amongst the outcasts and the sick
healing wounds that should never open,
seeing what shouldn’t be seen,
her robes of night fell on troubled waters.

Mary of the lepers,
Mary of the marsh,
I saw you running to the river,
I saw you running to the sea.
How you longed to sail away…

Writing Between the Worlds

Pagan Soc LogoOn Saturday the 12th of April UCLAN Pagan Society hosted a full day event called Writing Between the Worlds led by writer, storyteller and teacher, Kevan Manwaring. The first part involved combining Bardic and Shamanic practices with creative writing; encountering a guide, visiting the Otherworld, receiving a gift and returning, then journeying to meet the British god Nodens. After each journey we recorded our experiences.

In the second part all the workshop participants performed their work supported by local poets, storytellers and singers. During his headline performances Kevan recited poems based on Tam Lin and Taliesin. He told a story featuring a man with a portable gateway to the Otherworld set outside the Black Horse in Preston, and a magical tale about The White Horse of Uffington, which was the highlight of the night.

To read my full review please visit Pagan Soc’s website: http://uclanpagsoc.weebly.com/1/post/2014/04/writing-between-the-worlds.html

Stag Returns

Antlers, the Harris Museum, PrestonTo this valley of forgotten bones
from oak covered swamp through carr and marsh
a stag returns to drink at the river.
From the dockland’s basin stones
he sees the alterations of her course,
his reflection strange in flat, still water-
antlered head held high, mighty tines lightning-like,
eyes aglow with the spirit of the Boreal forest.
With him he brings the hunt- the mad ones,
the lost ones, shapeshifter gods whose bones
have been buried in our landscape again and again.
A blast on a horn, horse and hound or gun mean nothing
in his otherworldly eyes- to hunt the stag you must become him.

Riversway Dockland

Fairy Procession

Hear, oh, hear
The passing bell, fear
The midnight toll on the corpse road drear

Heed our chant
Avert your glance
From the spectral procession of Fairyland

For fates are we
Who the spirit paths keep
Between this world and mystery.

~

Year by year
We carry the bier
Down this avenue long and drenched in tears

With a fairy corpse
Whose withered form
And dew drenched face you would see as your own

Then mad would be,
Insanely flee
From the terror of death to its untimely sleep.

~

Hear, oh, hear
The passing bell, fear
The midnight toll on the corpse road drear

Heed our chant,
Avert your glance
From the spectral procession of Fairyland

For fates are we
Who the spirit paths keep
Between this world and mystery.

*This poem is based on the legend of Penwortham Fairy Funeral, which originally took place on Church Avenue on Castle Hill.
** The form of the poem and some of its wording are borrowed from the ‘Voices of Unseen Spirits’ in Percy Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, Act IV.

Long-tailed Tits

On a day of sun and dim mist
they strike up a band in the sky
and take me by their twirling steps
where happiness is reverenced
and joy is kind. I venerate
their humble nests, arrayed from moss
and spider silk, a feathered down
to keep their young warm and mothered,
safe from the crows. I venerate
the goodly ones from rainbow plains
of ancestral skies. I venerate
the family whose memories
of pain feed their fragile delight.

Workhouse, Whittle, Birchwood 011 - Copy

 

 

 

 

 

 

*This a photo taken in Whittle Wood beside Mill Brook in Penwortham where I saw the long-tailed tits. I didn’t take a photo of them because it didn’t feel right.