One Summer's Morning near Ivybridge

 This poem is quite different in style and content from all my others. To begin with, it relates to an event back at the end of the last century, so to some extent it was written from memory. It is also about as far from mundane as you can possibly get. It is also tinged with great sadness as, while I was writing it, my friend Martin who was my companion on the adventure, died after being ill for some years. Unfortunately, he never had a chance to see the poem.

Martin was a great friend who I first met when I was at Hawker Siddeley Power Transformers. He took me under his wing when I was posted to the transformer design office as part of my apprenticeship training. He was a superb walker, and together we completed the Pennine Way. Once was enough for me, but Martin did it again! He was immensely popular with a large group of walking friends, and is sadly missed, leaving us with many fond memories.

There is a lone piper mentioned in the poem, and I was keen to establish who he was. Lesley Hughes, Town Clerk of Ivybridge Town Council, was extremely helpful and made great efforts to try to track him down, but unfortunately was unsuccessful. I am no great fan of Social Media, but have to say if Facebook and Twitter were in popular use back then, I am sure he would soon have been tracked down. Lesley tells me that a copy of this poem has been deposited in the Ivybridge Library, as it is a record of local history.

Listen to recording

One Summer’s Morning near Ivybridge

Wednesday August 11 1999, a Summer’s day in this charming little Devon town

a day, starting apparently like any other

but then it wasn’t

A photographer might call it cloudy bright; it certainly wasn’t sunny

First sign that things were different, people in large numbers heading for the moors

But not the usual rambling types, but every sort; parents children, grandparents, tots being pushed up the lanes in buggies, we were a varied bunch

Leaving Ivybridge for the moors


 People scattered far and wide. Some settled down in varied groups, sitting on sheets and blankets, dotted all around the top of Butterdon hill, amongst the puzzled sheep. “what are all these people doing here?” they wonder "we normally see just a few up here"..

Arriving at Butterdon Hill

The extensive view was what we wanted, to horizon’s all around.

Martin settling down on Butterdon Hill

The atmosphere was strange and changing. We started out in shirtsleeves, perfect for a summer’s morning.

Martin in front of crowd on Butterdon Hill


But slowly the temperature dropped. We put on fleeces or jackets to keep warm. Almost inperceptibly, the light was going. The sheep were again confused. They thought that night was approaching, mid morning in August! Eventually they all sat down and became quiet. The people too, at first chattering, gradually became quieter and quieter. Only very occasionally did we glimpse the sun, it was gradually being eaten away.

The sun in partial eclipse

Then, the strangest thing of all …….

A giant shadow approached across the moor, like someone operating a celestial dimmer switch or closing an all-encompassing shutter, not smoothly, but in stages. Then the shadow engulfed us, and we entered a strange eerie world. 

The people on Butterdon Hill at near total eclipse

All around was dark, except for a red fiery rim all around the horizon. A lone piper, silhouetted against the red, played a lament, lasting for a minute or so.

Totality

 Then it was over, and the process reversed, light and warmth slowly returned.

What food for thought this is, as we make our way back to Ivybridge!

Returning to Ivybridge

How wonderful, clever Astronomers now tell us exactly when and where eclipses will take place, so we know the right time, and where to be.

But way back in time, how scary for the ancients, not knowing if it is the end of the world!

… and suppose you appeared just a few hours later. Although one of the most amazing natural events any human being can experience had just happened, there would be no evidence left behind.

… and would stone age man, emerging from his cave, believe you if you were able to describe it to him?

There are no answers, but for sure the events of that summer morning near Ivybridge, for those lucky enough to experience it, will live in the memory for ever.

  

Richard Ashen                                                                                                 October 2018

  

                                    

Martin Bennett

Martin Bennett      1939 – 2018
A true friend and wonderful walking companion


 RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

List of Poems

To read or listen to any poem, just click on its title below A Poem                                                                                           Anon What a Difference a Year Makes                                    Frank L Ashen Being Ninety - - - If only ...                                               Frank L Ashen Eighty Five                                                                           Frank L Ashen Was the Dough Really Kneaded?                                   Frank L Ashen Football and the World Cup                                           Frank L Ashen The Eighties in the Nineties                                            Frank L Ashen Thistledown                                                                        Frank L Ashen Moving into the Nineties                                                  Frank L Ashen Ninety Five                                                                          Frank L Ashen Medication                        
Read more

Mixed Heritage

Teddy O'Hara is the grandson of our community library volunteer Pat Hampshire. A long time ago, he got lost with Granny Pat in the Memorial Park, which is why we call it the Lost Park.  As Teddy was only three at the time, we consider Pat to be mainly responsible for this incident. At the age of twelve, Teddy has written this brilliant poem about his mixed English and Irish Heritage. MIXED HERITAGE   In a land of rolling hills and green, I'm a lad of twelve, as you've seen. With roots that reach from near and far, I'm English and Irish, that's who we are. In my heart two flags unfurl, St. George's cross and the Irish swirl. From London's streets to Dublin's shore, I cherish the cultures that I adore. Love the sound of bagpipes' call, And football matches, we give our all. From Premier League to Gaelic games, Both lands have left their lasting claims. In my veins, the stories run deep, Of kings and queens and legends to keep. The history's rich, t
Read more

Lost Park

This is Teddy O'Hara's description of his experience with "Nana" which resulted in the Chingford Memorial park receiving the nickname "The Lost Park" from the volunteers in South Chingford Community Library.  LOST PARK In the Lost Park , where chaos prevails, Nana and I, navigating funny trails. Nearly ten years on, still lost in our jest, In the Lost Park, where confusion's the best. In the Lost Park, Nana and I strayed, A one-time misstep, where laughter was laid. A tale we share, a chuckle on our lips, In the Lost Park, where our sense of direction slips. All around, Lost Park's the phrase on tongues, Nana's tale, where laughter sprung. A quirky name, a shared remark. In Lost Park, where echoes embark. Teddy O'Hara    January 2024 RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS
Read more