THE SUN ON DANBY GARDENS

The sun on Danby Gardens

smells of roast beef,

tastes of my youth.

The flying cinders of a steam train

spark in my dreams.

Across the old field,

a miner breaks his back

and lovers roll in the ditches,

off beaten tracks.

Off Bigges Main,

my grandad taps his stick,

reaches for the braille of long-dead strikes.

The nights

fair draw in

and I recall Joyce Esthella Antoinette Giles

and her legs that reached for miles,

tripping over the stiles 

in red high heels.

It was her and blonde Annie Walker

who took me in the stacks

and taught me how to read

the signs

that led inside their thighs.

Those Ravenswood girls

would dance into your life

and dance though all the snow drops

of those freezing winters,

in the playground of young scars.

And I remember freckled Pete

who taught me Jazz,

who pointed me to Charlie Parker

and the edgy bitterness of Brown Ale.

Mrs Todd next door

was forever sweeping

leaves along the garden path

her fallen husband loved to tread.

Such days:

the smoke of A4 Pacifics in the aftermath of war,

the trail of local history on the birthmarked street.

And I have loved you all my life

and will no doubt die in Danby Gardens

where all my poems were born,

just after midnight.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

OLD STATIONS

(for Kathleen Sisterson)

There’s an old station

I keep dreaming of

where I wandered

as a child;

flower baskets

seep with longing

and engines

pant with steam.

It might have been

at Chollerton,

in a summer’s field,

when I realised

how good 

life could be,

in the sunshine

of my songs;

or it might have been

at Falstone

where the roses

smelt of smoke

and I felt

the breath of railwaymen

wafting in my hair.

This little boy,

with his North Tyne lilt

and the dialect

of ancients,

ran up the platform

of his life

and chased

the racing clouds.

It was a first taste

of Kielder Forest

and the light

that skimmed the hills

and the engine

rattled through the day

to drive me 

to my roots:

to Deadwater

and Saughtree,

the hours flew

for miles

and the railway

ran into my veins

and sparked 

history in my soul.

In this album

of a fragile world,

I’d like to leave 

these lines 

for you to find

in Bellingham

or Wark,

a tune to play

in Reedsmouth

in Woodburn 

or in Wall.

Along this route, 

I hope you'll find

a glimpse of me in youth;

the smiling child,

inside the man,

who took the train

by chance

and found his way 

with words

and leaves

to Thorneyburn 

and Riccarton,

along the tracks

of dreams.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Beautiful and evocative (Conrad Atkinson)

Thanks for your wonderful poem 'Old Stations'. It's a truly moving piece of work, tapping childhood nostalgia but in away that seems naturally to a young imagination being born of the lore and physicality of the trains and railway stations. ( Noel Duffy)

Really liked that one, so descriptive , I could see it all in my mind’s eye! (Marie Little)

Wonderfully evocative, Keith. (Sid Smith)

Like it! (Pete Thompson)

It's great Keith! (Peter Common)

As ever, a lovely poem & one I can easily relate to. (Geoff Holland)

(written for an exhibition at Bellingham Heritage Centre, June 2013)

SONGBIRD

If I had been a really professional poet,

I would be still rewriting this,

poring over the umpteenth draft,

burning the midnight quill.

As it is, all I want to say again is this:

that a songbird does not need an Arts Council grant

to sing.

Keith Armstrong

DURHAM

photo by Peter Dixon

Cobbled webs of my thoughts

hang around your lanes.

A brass band nestles in my head,

cosy as a bed bug.

I’m reading from a balcony

poems of Revolution.

It’s Gala Day and the words are lost

in the coal dust of your lungs.

Your dark satanic brooding Gaol

throws a blanket over blankness:

a grim era of second hand visions

aches like a scab in a cell.

And rowing a punt up your Bishop’s arse

a shaft of sunlight on the river

strikes me only as true,

shining into the eyes of all the prisoners

swinging from Cathedral bells.

Old Durham Town, you imprison me

like a scream in a Salvation Army song,

release me soon:

someone 

get ready to hug me.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

THE BIRD WOMAN OF WHITLEY BAY

Photo by Tony Whittle 

THE BIRD WOMAN OF WHITLEY BAY

She is out feeding the birds,

on the dot again,

in the drizzle of a seaside morning;

the seed 

cast fom her hand

to the jerking beak of a cock pheasant.

She is alone 

in a flock of dark starlings,

scattering crumbs to make them shriek.

She is a friend of spuggies,

gives blackbirds water.

Her eyes fly across the garden

to catch a quick robin,

to spot a wee wren,

to chase a bold magpie.

She is innocence,

she is a lovely old lady;

still giving,

still nursing.

She deserves heaven,

she deserves a beautiful nest

to dream out her last hours 

in bird song;

in the rich colours of music,

in the red feathers of sunset,

she is my mother,

she is a rare bird

who fed me beautiful dreams.

Thank you for letting me climb 

with the skylarks.

Thank you

for the strength of wings. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

dr keith armstrong live in breda with ad van emmerick!