Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  At the end of our weekend away, we came upon Edlingham Castle. We’d passed by the English Heritage sign a few times but it took us till Sunday to visit the glorious ruin.             Arriving at the main stone path, I realised that this encompassed the full castle grounds. Passing between the stubby walls of the barbican, I saw her reach out and run her fingers across the top, scattering gravel dust. I didn’t remark on this. We were the only ones on-site.             I shielded my eyes from the sun as I doubled back on the information panel. She kept walking through the courtyard, pulling out her camera. Apparently Edlingham Castle began life as a normal residence, later fortified as the English meddled with Scottish royalty. Three hundred years of social disruption, outright destruction and border raiding. Glancing up, I saw her skid over stray pebbles.             She was snapping photos of what remained of the solar tower. You couldn’t see much front-on but I knew she was te

  Lightning strikes the maidenhair tree Sizzling electricity arcs To dried out branches, now fully ablaze, Falling to earth in a pile of sparks.   The smouldering embers deep in the forest Sink beneath the earth’s floor. They flow like a river seeking its source, Bathing the rocks and releasing the ore.   The ore is now found, it is worked, it is wrought By hands of men tilling the earth. The metal is forged and formed and bent - A cup, a jug, man knows its worth.   A maidenhair sapling grows alone, by the house All tidy and trimmed, but dying of thirst. A girl brings a jug made of ore from the ash. She’s thirsty as well, but the tree must come first.   The tree’s now much taller, no longer alone, The forest’s not silent, sounds rending the air. Men still do their digging, they burn, and they drill, But they’re also, finally, learning to share.   The elements weave an ancient design, Together, apart, rebirth, and then death. Nothing