THE WHITE HORSE OF KILBURN

‘They come from near and far to sit upon his eye

And stand upon his back on the hill so steep and high.’ (Thomas Goodrick)

Flying out of John Hodgson’s brilliant mind,

inspired by Harrison Weir’s artistic pen,

it took Tom Taylor to land you here 

in the ancient limestone 

of wind-mocked Roulston Scar Cliff.

Thirty two laboured to craft you,

driven by the very Soul of Creation.

They gave you the gift of witness from this hill

and you have seen an awful lot

and are not left alone.

Your fine legs are pinned

to the side of Yorkshire

and these Tykes have mounted and whitewashed you,

drawn on you out of loneliness,

abused 

and treasured you.

The rough days have flitted across your face

and the sun caressed your back.

Lovers have tried you on for size

and the skies have opened over you.

What wars, what landscaped wounds,

have passed you by.

Soldiers of God have marched on below you:

to stop your great heart hurting,

they hid you from the Nazis,

covered up your hail-lashed feelings.

Still, we will look after you,

knowing that you live on for future boys and girls

while we turn to rubble in Kilburn churchyard,

our eyes burn out,

our pulsing hearts close.

White Horse,

White Days

and Nights,

White Yorkshire Rose

in a colourful world:

this great steed belongs to all the Universe.

I do believe that 

John saw that. 

And we will continue

to feed this Horse’s lovely spirit

and, through its grace,

grow beautiful

ourselves.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQXzN-RBOWY&feature=youtu.be

MY FRIEND JACK COMMON (1903-1968)

Ever since the sixth form,

when I found you, 

a kindred Novocastrian

in a library book,

I seem to have followed in your steps,

stumbled after you 

in rain soaked lanes,

knocked on doors

in search of your stories.

For over forty years,

I have tracked

the movement of your pen

in streets you walked

and on cross country trains

from your own Newcastle

to Warrington

Malvern,

Newport Pagnell,

Letchworth,

Yetminster,

Wallington 

and back again.

I have given talks about you,

supped in your pubs,

strode along your paragraphs 

and river paths

to try to find

that urge in you

to write 

out of your veins

what you thought of things,

what made you tick

and your loved ones 

laugh and cry.

I tried to reach you in a thesis,

to see you as a lad in Heaton,

but I could never catch your breath

because I didn’t get to meet you

face to face,

could only guess

that you were like me:

a kind of kindly 

socialist writer

in a world

too cruel for words.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

SPIDER: A MEMORY

Spider's in

The Half Moon afternoon,

eyes beaming under the peak of his cap;

a drinker's smile

from the salt of the earth.

He's dreaming of the raging sea

and he sups a fretting old pint;

getting ready to walk

over the teeming hill.

A drool in The Shakespeare,

a let-slip of a grin,

academic locals

jawing themselves still

in dark rooms

of a Durham past;

brass bands blessed

on rampant days,

waves tumbling

from a balcony.

Praise be to Spider,

honour his life,

and

the days spent

twinkling

through a city of bars.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

WELCOME TO NEWCASTLEGATESHEAD! - WITH GUIDE DR KEITH ARMSTRONG!