From summer 2019 to summer 2021 I was poet in residence for the wonderful Gems in the Dunes conservation project. The project has now come to a close, but the place and the poetry remain . . .

The Power of Small Things

We were all captivated by the Northern Dune Tiger Beetle in the third creative writing workshop of our recent series. Project Officer Andrew gave us insight into the strange world of this rare and remarkable creature. There was plenty inspiration for writing, and some amazing poems were created. Here are four such poems from the night, written by Jude, Kimberley, Rosie and Eileen . . .

Shyness and Swagger

In the second of our Spring workshops, Project Manager Fiona introduced us to the fascinating life of the Sand Lizard. We explored the value of contrast, in the world and in creativity, and wrote in haiku and haibun forms to celebrate this gloriously contradictory creature. Enjoy these pieces by Eileen and Rosie . . .

Haiku by Eileen Windridge

A thicket covers

Greenly, thin, shy lizard.

Boldly, bright, he’s out

If I go seeking in the dunes by Eileen Windridge

If I go seeking in the dunes, will I see him?  Who can know? Patient attention is the thing.  Nothing wasted if I practice these: if all my mind’s resources pool together on this search, a sighting may be my reward; or maybe the mind’s imaginings as I peer with penetrating quietness; or just concentration on the search is all. The doing and the being are what counts, I think.  A day on the dunes like this is calling me I think. 

Whether I see you 

Or no, you are there and so am I

Attending to you.

Whether I see you

Or no, you won’t know at all

That I am there too.

Knights in Green Armour by Rosie Woods

Not fighters there, but gentle proud members of a fellowship of males.  Hunt they do, but only as they need, to breed and feed and strengthen.  Ladies in brown veiling, muted but serene, watch their darts and dances, and choose wisely for their brood.  But, like knights of Arthur’s Day, they grow fewer.  Rarely seen or heard but magnificent they be.  Long may they live here, be nurtured and protected, till numbers rise, and they are safe again.

 

Armour green and bright.
Proud lizard on their shielding
We bow down before you.

Night Singing

During April and May I was privileged to be involved in three online workshops celebrating the creatures of the dunes through creative writing. In the first of these, Project Officer Andrew, led us into the world of the natterjack toad; the more we learned the more our hearts filled with toad-love! We responded by writing odes, which are poems of praise and appreciation.  Here are some beautiful examples from participants Rosie and Eileen . . . 

An Eyeful of Toadiness by Rosie Woods

Stoic Toad, miniature in size

https://www.dw.com/en/bringing-britains-endangered-
wildlife-back-from-the-brink/a-47854943

But mighty in impact.

Your bulging eyes are home

To many secrets.

Secrets of the sands,

Of tiny creatures,

Colours blending with the earth

And a song that shatters all stillness.

 (You are a male, I presume?)

 Meeting you is awesome

So close and yet so far.

What patience it takes

To make your profile.

I know so little, and am hungry

For so much more.

 

Each time I hear or see your presence,

In sandy dune,

Rambling run,

Climate chosen burrow,

Your very own Toad Hall,

I will remember

That eye, that song,

That shambling but effective gait

And one day I will visit, 

And revere you at home.

 

Eyes  by Rosie Woods

Dreaming dreams

Through those great, wide eyes, 

I wonder what the world looks like

From your particular perspective.

How big are you, I wonder

As you dart from place to place.

Tiny to us, yet huge to sand flies.

Cute in our sight, danger in theirs.

Natterjack Eye - Alex Hyde
https://naturebftb.co.uk/artwork/natterjack-eye-alex-hyde/

 

Those great eyes

Gleam and glisten

Calling me forth

From dark wondering.

Beautiful they are

And mystic too,

Hiding sights this human cannot see.

Eyes powerful, summoning.

To drown in their depths would be bliss.

But not if I were sand fly!

Not so common

I am delighted to discover that inspiration from the recent creative writing workshops has continued. Here is a poem by Ian Homewood celebrating the not so common toad . . .

Toads

They call us common

But what do they mean? 

We look after our appearance

And we keep our homes clean

We may not be pretty

Or have flowing manes 

But there's no need to label us

And start calling us names

How would they like it

If we followed their lead

And shouted up after them

"what's up you lanky weed?" 

So before you speak out loud

Please try to be a friend

And don't call us names

That are likely to offend! 

Ian Homewood

Socks

I came across this strange sight one summer's day in the dunes; the owner of the socks was nowhere to be seen.  I offered the image to the workshop writers, to see where it took their imaginations, and it inspired the the fabulous poems below . . .

Marram grass spikes

stick up through the sand

In motion with the sea breeze.

I trudge through the dunes until,

blue socks discarded 

I run, in contact with the elements

Sand, sea, sky. 

 

Jill Head

 

 

 

Socks off,

A sudden need,

To ground myself, bare feet,

Connecting to the earth, I wander

Socks lost.

 

Katy Perry

 The Allure of Sand

 Bewitching beach, you have unshod me

How could I resist your primeval spell?

Oh! how I yearn to sink slowly into your silent, soft embrace

 

Then fleet of foot, to skip across your salt washed ribs 

And return your powdery gold beneath the waking waves

 

Des Ney

 

 

SOCKS

 Great day

Running barefoot

Through the marram grasses

We were laughing, shouting, jumping

Socks gone.

 

Dropped

James, he noticed

But said nothing just ran

He wanted to win the race, first

He won!

 

Kathryn Ashton

 

Socks
A trip to the dunes is never complete
Without shedding my socks and having bare feet
The trouble, I find, is with my feet bare
That when I get home my socks are still there

Ian Homewood

 

 

Small and perfectly formed

In Monday's workshop we experimented with short forms of poetry which are also constrained writing practices. As you can see from the wonderful array of haiku and cinquains below, the constraints proved very fruitful!

Wild Wonders

 

In the third workshop of the series, we encountered the astonishing plant-life and fungi of the dunes. There was plenty to inspire us as we experimented with various forms of constrained writing (which can be paradoxically liberating!). Here are some acrostic poems written on the night using the phrase Wild Wonders. It always amazes me how we all have our own unique creative path to follow from the same starting point, as these four poems beautifully demonstrate . . .

Wild Wonders

Walking alone
In the dunes
Looking at the grasses
Dancing in the breeze

When I walk I think
Of all the things about me
Not of crowds or work
Definitely not work
Even when disturbed by
Rowdy passers by
Serenity returns

Ian Homewood

Wild Wonders

We walked further than we intended.

I looked around for some familiar landmark.

Lost! I hate being lost!

Didn’t know what to do!

 

We looked at the map, an

Ordinance survey map of the area.

Not easy to find the path we were on. There were so many.

Down near the river. Perhaps we should try and find where the water was. Would it be in a valley?

Emily started to cry and that upset the others.

Right it was time to get a little tough and

Stop all the tears, otherwise we would never find our way home.

Kathryn Ashton

 

Flooded Tree

Water water everywhere

Intruding my space.

Life must go on

Despite this inundation.

 

Where are my roots?

Overrun by flood.

Not gone though

Despite the deluge;

Extending to drier parts,

Reaching out,

Surviving.

Alastair McMurdo

Wild Wonders

 

What

I 

Like about wandering through the 

Dunes is

 

Winding through 

On small paths

Never sure when I will 

Deviate from the main one

Ever alert to seeing a jewel lizard

Resting and

Sunning himself drawing in the warmth

 

Jill Head

 

Close observations

 

James Hodkinson made this illuminating observation about his experience of the workshops -

“It was particularly lovely to see the sudden joy on people's faces when something awoke inside them, a creative spark from contact with nature that ignited a passion, idea or memory.”

 This is so true, and I’m grateful to James for articulating it. It’s also wonderful to know that the creative fire will have continued to burn beyond the workshops for some, as it did for James when he wrote this poignant nature poem . . .

 

THE SAP IS STIRRING 

Sadness snows on birch branch bare,
On two green finches resting there.

Yet spiting Winter's slate-sky sorrows:
When she takes flight  -  he follows.

James Hodkinson

 

A poem by Eileen

 

Here is a moving poem written by Eileen Windridge after one of our poetry walks in the dunes (in the days when we could meet there and talk and write together). Although not directly about the dunes, it is a nature poem connecting to the shore a little further up the Sefton coast . . . 

The Arrival of the Pink Footed Geese

The greatest compensation for summer’s fading glory,

Can sometimes seems so long in coming: 

Well after the first morning nip had called attention

To something not yet quite believed, though the quality of light had softened so.  

An age it seems since carried sounds became more muffled 

And the hedgerow spiders’ webs displayed a thousand spangled gems at dawn.

I look and listen out for your arrival.

Oh yes, wonderful are the turning leaves to gold and russet; 

And what a treat to forage in the fields; to gather conkers still protected in their prickly shells;

To watch the children crunching through the gutters with delight; 

And taste some of the garden apple harvest.  Yet

For me the best arrives with you. I wait with practiced patience.

Sometimes September’s nearly over and expectation still hovers on my margins.

The days grow shorter; gathering in the logs is now a daily task;

Strictly and Bake-off are in full flow and late summer clothes have

Long been stowed away. 

But when you come, always at the least expected moment, 

While bringing in the wheelie bin or clearing breakfast things,

I’m stilled.

Just one cry at first, a yell as if of triumph, taut, loud and heralding,

Before the sky above my world becomes a ‘V’ of joy.

On and on you come, first this one leads, now that one takes its turn,

Clamorous and rejoicing; the drama of it all! 

You heroes of the sky, a thousand mile journey nearly at an end on Marshside’s shore.

My heart leaps in welcome!  How blessed to be alive.

“They’re here!” I call to those within. 

And then all quietens, as you settle over marshy land to rest.

In all the season’s turning, you’ll be my company throughout the darkest morns and closing afternoons to come: signals of wintry hope, healthiness of nature ‘s cycles turning.  

You’ll stay until the call of home returns, when April’s spring time shoots are growing bolder-

Then you will rise again as one and take your leave for breeding grounds familiar and feathers new.  

 

Eileen Windridge

 

Two Stories

Old photographs and memories of the dunes have continues to inspire the creative attendees of the workshops. Here are two mini stories; Kath's recounts a memory, and Eileen's imagines a captured moment. Enjoy . . .

 

A poem by Alastair

 It's inspiring to receive writing from workshop participants and seeing what an image or idea has sparked in them. Here is a poem from Alastair McMurdo showing how poetry can open up many perspectives . . .

Who took the photo?

A parent took the photo – concerned

My kids might get hurt
And I’ll have to wash out the dirt.

 A worker took the photo – irritated

Go and find somewhere else to play
got to finish this digging today.

 A conservationist took the photo – irritated.

Those dunes are home to rarities
To you they’re just amenities.

 A teacher took the photo – impatient

You’ve all come here to learn
But you’re playing with no concern.

 An old fogey took the photo – disapproving

Boys and girls shoulder to shoulder
What will they be like when they’re older?

 I took the photo – wistful

Where does the fun of children go?
With age their joy will turn to woe.

Alastair McMurdo