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Sadly, the Rev. John Browne died May 2002. Although he was awarded the Military Cross for leading his platoon to recapture a ridge on the Greek island of Leros during the Second World War, he came to believe that war was a disaster, and later became heavily involved in the peace movement, working for CND, Victim Support, Amnesty International, Christian Aid and the Calderdale Volunteer Bureau.
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These poems are mostly taken from the above book published locally in 1991. With the author's agreement we have made them available on the The Book Case "Words" site, concentrating on those of local interest because they give such a good idea of the Calder Valley. The book itself is out of print.
NEVER A COMFORTABLE LAND
The line of hills is unadorned,
untamed except where
walls and tracks
reach up to cross the distant ridge.
Elsewhere the
rock-strewn moors and crags
still hold uninterrupted sway,
and on this
panoramic stage
the slow processions of the clouds
unfold their timeless
pageantry.
The skyline may be sharp and clear
or mellow in the
morning light.
Sometimes the hills are veiled in mist
and drifting rain
hides field and farm;
or gusting winds bring slanting showers
to beat on
roof and window pane
and set the streams in sudden spate -
then fall
silent and give way
to patchwork skies and rain-washed air,
each blade of
grass, each leaf, bedewed
and glistening in a world renewed.
Never a comfortable land.
There will be times when
summer's warmth
enfolds the hills, but these are rare.
The usual mood is
cold and grey,
sparse trees bending in the wind
And rain not far
away.
MORNING MIST
Today - the March winds all blown out -
A cold mist settles on the
land.
No wind disturbs the sombre trees
which stand like statues, dark
and still,
against the all-pervading grey.
They cast no shadow. Bark and
bud
drink in the dampness of the air.
The hills are hidden. Buildings
loom
into my view and quickly fade
as I move on through an
unreal,
uncoloured, dim and cloistered world.
A dog barks on a distant farm.
Cars change gear and grope their
way
Along the once-familiar road.
Walls and tracks lead nowhere now
-
Until at last the sun breaks through
In golden shafts. Winds stir
again.
Grey clouds disperse in drifting banks
or wisps across the nearest
ridge,
and slowly, in increasing light,
a multi-coloured world
revives.
CLOUDS OVER CALDERDALE
This is skyline country
where moor and pasture meet
and, without
hope of victory
or danger of defeat,
in rain and sunshine, frost and
thaw,
still wage their never-ending war.
Across the broken hillside
old walls and tracks connect
each
scattered farm and homestead,
complete or derelict,
determining from age
to age
the frontiers of our heritage.
The wind blows down the valley
or sweeps across the ridge
to
twitch the mist from Heckmondwike,
scatter the clouds on Stoodley Pike
or
ransack Hebden Bridge.
The clouds disperse or gather
and turn from white to grey
to
decorate the sunset
or hide the light of day,
reflecting in their
changing moods
our own unstable attitudes.
In all their transformations,
foreboding or serene,
majestic and
mysterious,
they dominate the scene.
As they reflect our joys and
cares
so we respond to theirs.
THE OXENHOPE ROAD ON A MAY MORNING
The road from Hebden Bridge to Oxenhope
climbs between the shelves
of houses, perched
at awkward angles on the steep hillside.
The
delicate green drapery of trees,
made up of sunlight shining through the
mist,
has magical mysterious qualities.
The contours widen. Trees are
left behind.
We climb out of the valley. On our left
land falls steeply
away to Crimsworth Dean.
Beyond the frontier post of Pecket Well
nothing will interrupt the open moor,
bathed now in sunshine, swept by
gentle winds,
where sheep show their sweet lambs how to survive
and
even here, where no one else would live,
to find their food and shelter.
Travelling on wide sweeps of road
approach the lonely summit, and
from there
all signs of habitation are concealed
within the folds and
hollows of the hills.
On this wide crest under an endless sky
we
breathe the scented air and feel the stir
of life's perennial mystery.
(From Harden Not Your Hearts)
VIEW FROM STAVELY COTE
Everything around is supernatural;
everything
so full of unexplained meaning. - Richard Jeffries
Dwarfed on this crest and summit of the world
wind rustling, lark
song, flight of birds,
slow-sailing, silent clouds,
no man-made
sounds.
Sheep graze contentedly on random paths.
Cars move like toys
along familiar roads.
The world lies open; teeming life unseen
renews the
earth. Peace reigns.
If I should stay a thousand years
the glory of this
moment will not be
repeated. Now at one
with everything I see,
touched
by the stillness of eternity,
fears, troubles, doubts, all fall away
And
I am free.
PENNINE SEASCAPE
Stoodley Pike, the lighthouse, gives no light
But on
its headland mutely celebrates
an ancient victory.
Contorted trees
bear witness to the strength of winds
that sweep
indifferently over land and sea,
with power to bend, uproot
and tear away
all hindrances standing in their path;
to drive great ships
off course
and send the coasters scudding back to port.
The rolling hills, laid open to the sky,
respond to
every move of cloud and light,
inconstant as the ever-changing
sea,
although unmoving.
Houses ride
like ships at anchor in each cove or
creek
where contours give protection from the wind -
clustered together
by the harbour wall
or scattered widely on the open sea -
while others,
on the sky-line, seem to perch
forever on the wave's unbroken crest.
Some
stranded hulks, abandoned by their crew,
lie derelict, exposed to gale and
storm,
but on these moorings, grounded on these rocks,
they still outlive
the centuries and stay
as gaunt memorials to the families
who once lived
here and called this place their home.
Against all odds how many time-worn deeds
preserved in
lawyers' offices, attest
the continuity of life and work
of those who, in
time past and still today,
scarce moving from the place where they were
born,
remain as sentinels and guardians
of these austere, time-honoured
settlements?
They make no voyages and never know
the lonely desolation of
the sea,
whose restless waves so soon obliterate
all signs of our
sea-faring.
Here the stone-clad paths are everlasting.
The
rough-hewn tracks, laboriously made
by toil begotten of necessity,
still,
in our less-demanding times, mark out
the course we take - beside the broken
wall,
across the hill, along the valley rim -
to link the village with
the open moor,
and bring the traveller home.
WILLOWHERB
In August as the summer fades
and leaves take on a
darker green
the rosebay willowherb invades
and decorates the scene.
It commandeers unwanted ground
in tall formations
closely set
and every stem will soon be crowned
with its own coronet.
The pink and purple clusters spread
a mantle over
nature's scars -
the rubbish dump, the ruined shed
and the abandoned
cars.
Some call it 'fireweed', for it grows
on bomb site or
volcanic ash
and in unlikely places shows
its colourful panache.
Beneath an ever-changing sky,
where flowers were never
seen before,
its purple patches beautify
the weatherbeaten moor.
It marks a season of the year
with its own character and
name,
then withers in the colder air
and fades as swiftly as it
came.
PEACE BY THE RIVER (Hiroshima Day, 6th August)
A riverside ceremony commemorating the 43rd anniversary of Hiroshima, using the traditional symbols of paper cranes and candles in paper boats floating dangerously down the stream.
Where Pity stands beyond the reach of words
the cranes
become our spokesmen.
With wide wings
they hover by the arches of the
bridge
and from the lanterns in the island trees.
Bridge-centred, like a willow-patterned plate,
the stage
is set. The river rustles by.
Like clock-work black-smiths busy in their
forge
the Gamelan players strike their hammer blows.
Casual
passers-by,
attracted by the sound, pause on the bridge.
Behind them
tree-clad hills rise up to form
a meditative backcloth to the scene.
Candles glimmer in the fading light.
The music ceases
and a voice recalls
the cruel reality of what was done
so many years ago,
and whose effects
are wounding still, o'ershadowing the lives
of
generations then unborn.
Children, too young to see
beyond the magic of the
candle-light,
run here and there until it's time to launch
more candles
in the fragile paper boats
and watch their passage down the darkening
stream.
(From Harden Not Your Hearts)
HABITAT
Across the hills the houses stand
as sentinels, each at
its post
determined through the centuries
by wind and contour, soil and
spring
and rock formations, fold and fault,
whose mighty movements, far
below
create the ever-changing scene
where we, for one brief moment,
come
to play our destined part.
OCTOBER
Lovely October of the halfway days: the wayward pause
between the certainties of summer and winter - the one well over, the other not
yet begun - C. Gordon Glover
October of the halfway days
from Michaelmas to Hallowe'en
when
autumn sets the woods ablaze
and all that lives is poised
between
resplendent summer and the cold
diminishing November
days,
time lingers like a tale half-told
before the parting of the
ways.
October when the seasons meet
and for a while walk hand in
hand,
the living world is in retreat
and shadows fall across the
land.
St Luke's brief summer brings a glow
of warmth into the autumn
air
to celebrate before we go
the crown and pivot of the year.
THE SIGNPOST
A limbless signpost where the road divides
has pointing fingers on
its weathered sides.
Whoever made it took no count of time
but patiently
contrived his own design,
and carved each letter with a sculptor's
skill.
Across the centuries he greets us still.
As artist and as craftsman he gave more
than recompense or duty could
require,
and left this monument in sombre stone
to guide the traveller on
paths unknown.
No more an artefact it seems to stand
As if indigenous to
this bleak land.
DECEMBER DAY
An early morning frost adorns
the silent and serene December
woods.
A hidden stream still flows between the trees.
The dog, unleashed,
across the frozen ground,
uphill and down, rejoices to expend
his pent-up
energy. Twigs break and snap
beneath his flying feet.
The day moves on.
Gathering clouds eclipse the morning
brightness
and secret, whispering, all-pervasive rain
washes away the
crisp magnificence
of winter's frozen kingdom.
Trees, no longer silent or
serene,
stand desolately, leafless and exposed
on sodden ground, now
yielding to my feet.
The hidden stream breaks cover and
cascades
tumultuously down the hill.
The afternoon
brings stronger winds to sweep the clouds away.
Pale
sunshine in the colder air restores
some colour to the dying day,
and on
the tops of grey, mysterious hills
the afterglow of sunset slowly
fades.
CHRISTMAS
At the nadir of the year
when raucous winds bring sleet and
rain
we know that we still have to bear
the weight of winter's long
campaign.
At any time the snow may fall
and silently engulf us all.
The nightly bulletins present
barbarities beyond belief,
unnerving
in their cold contempt
for life and love and human grief.
If that were
all there is to hear
our only course would be despair.
But through all this a fragile joy,
as delicate as mist in
May,
brings light no darkness can destroy
and holds the wrathful tide at
bay
with power to break the sad constraint
of sullen thought and dull
complaint.
"Glory to God and peace on earth."
In such a world can this be
true?
God present in a humble birth
known only to chosen few?
Truth
comes in an unlikely form
and as a child true love is born.
JANUARY
In winter's grip the landscape lies,
ice-bound,
snow-dusted, ribbed with walls.
Dark houses cluster and the trees
stand
rigid in the frozen air.
The gritter scuffles through the snow,
easing
the milkman's daily round.
Bewildered birds fly here and there
in search
of food. The patient sheep
are waiting to be fed.
Muffled figures stand and wait
for buses that may never come.
Old
folk prefer to stay indoors
and reminisce about the past.
However bad
things are today
they could be, and have been, much worse.
The ordinary day's routine
acquires an epic quality -
each
enterprise more difficult,
each journey more adventurous -
until
night-fall, when any gains
the thaw has made are soon reversed
and, under
clear unclouded skies,
the temperature will fall again.
Ice forms on
windows. Outlets freeze.
Black ice makes roads more dangerous.
We have
survived another day.
No sign of warmer weather yet.
(From Harden Not Your Hearts)
AN ELIGIBLE PLACE
Nowhere in the universe, I am persuaded, is so
eligible a place, all things considered, as Slack.
Rev. John Taylor,
Baptist Minister, 1807
A magical half-haunted place
where ghosts still walk the pack-horse
trail
and clamber up the frowning Steeps
with faces set against the
gale.
Where ramblers now wander, free
and happy on the Pennine Way,
child workers lived in misery
and laboured through a twelve-hour day.
Their only solace and relief
came from the Baptist Chapels where
salvation wore a friendly face.
The articles of their belief,
expressed in fervent praise and prayer,
became an active means of grace
as, faithful to their Master’s call,
all cared for each and each
for all.
Now of these chapels few remain
and those that do just struggle on
supported by a faithful few
in loyalty to an age that’s gone.
And - sadly - neither welfare state
nor up-and-coming candidate,
no
social club or institute
has yet produced a substitute.
Cold winds of winter over-run
the first spring days, and when the
sun
shines intermittently between
the racing clouds, its pallid gleam
will not be strong enough to thaw
the strands of snow that linger
still,
like seaweed on a tidal shore,
along the wall and up the hill.
The aconite and snowdrop pierce
the frozen ground. They are the
first
defenceless symbols of rebirth
engendered in the pregnant earth.
Frail shoots appear and gardens fill
with crocus, primrose, daffodil,
and in the sunshine after rain
a fresh green world is seen again.
The road climbs through a changing scene
from Heptonstall to Edge
Hey Green,
then down the hill and out of sight
to Jack Bridge and the
New Delight.
The skyline beckons far and wide;
the birds all sing their
joyful song,
and where the horsemen used to ride
an ant-like tractor
bumps along.
Tall grasses ripple in the breeze
and waters swirl between the
trees.
I wander through a leafy maze
of golden, summer-laden days,
or pause to watch the clouds sail by
and trace the shadows as they fly
unhindered over hill and dale
like witches in a fairy-tale.
At any season of the year
the north-west wind leaps from its lair.
All day and night it rants and roars
across the wild and lonely moors,
and thunders like a steeple-chase
through village street and
market-place.
It harasses man, bird and beast
and turns a cowering
world south-east.
From bilberry and willowherb
to brambles and the brilliant red
of berries on the rowan tree
the year moves on. The summer birds
fly south across an empty sky
and all the crops are harvested.
The
winter trees stand gaunt and grey,
their withered leaves all blown
away.
CROCUSES
Suddenly the white and blue
and gold and yellow shoots come
through,
embroidering the roadside ways
with random tapestries - a
blaze
of brilliant colours, clear and fresh
as Nature's vernal wedding
dress.
Although the March winds rage and roar
and hailstones rattle on the
door;
and though we have not seen the last
of skies forlorn and
overcast,
yet still the crocus bids us sing
the wonder-working songs of
spring.
(From Harden Not Your Hearts)
WIDDOP RESERVOIR
Brown, green and grey, verging on black
the barren rock strewn hills
surround
the sparkling waters of the reservoir.
A solitary house
for hermits, fishermen or lock-keepers
stands
squarely on the further shore.
The road behind wanders away
to Nelson,
Colne, Trawden and Wycoller.
Apart from that, no sign of life
or hint of progress. History stands
still
since ice-age glaciers released their grip
on these great rocks and
left them where they fell.
At last the Water Board arrived
with tractors, drills and
piledrivers
to dam the river and construct
a concrete monument, from
whose dark depths
succeeding generations reap
the only harvest this bleak
land can yield.
(From Melanie and Other Poems)
DOGS
Dogs are never adolescent.
Leaving puppyhood behind
they are
instantly converted
to an adult state of mind.
Dogs of different shapes and sizes,
fierce or placid, fast or
slow,
accept without complaint or question
everything that makes them
so.
Dogs portrayed by Botticelli,
Rembrandt, Hogarth or Vermeer,
seem
to have much more in common
than the people painted there.
Human customs, style and manners
vary with the changing scene,
but
for dogs correct behaviour
is what it has always been.
THE LADY CHAPEL AT HEPTONSTALL
I love this place. Its quiet simplicity
provides a waiting-room for
all who seek
new revelations, or to be assured
that their once-given
trust was not misplaced.
Others were here before me, and who knows
how
many, yet unborn, will find the same
tranquillity and peace within these
walls?
From Harden Not Your Hearts
WORDS FAIL ME
My brain is like a fishing-net or sieve
whose carefully designed
interstices
grow more elastic with each year I live.
Words escape me with
derisive ease
and leave me like a lepidopterist
galumphing through a
labyrinth of trees
in search of specimens already missed.
But when no longer needed they return
and act as if they'd never been
away.
My welcome is reserved and taciturn.
How can I know that they have
come to stay?
Meanwhile some other words have taken flight.
Just when I
have important things to say
they leave me speechless as an anchorite.
So as an anchorite let me remain
and mutely meditate unspoken
themes:
love's tender, inexpressible refrain,
the word-forsaken imagery
of dreams.
Relieved of all anxiety and strain
I leave the words to their
elusive games
and seek the truth no language can contain.
BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
Trained from our earliest days
to struggle and compete, we must
unlearn
so much before we can begin to know
the peace whose making brings
this blessedness.
Peace indivisible - with God and man -
conceived in
justice, cherished without thought
of self-advancement.
and for the common good, so to defend
the more or less
disguised fragility
of every human being.
Peace as the state
of mind
which can resolve my hidden fears,
releasing tension, opening the way
to
goals which had seemed unattainable.
Peace as the Spirit's fruit, grown
patiently
and nurtured in endurance, guarded by
the courage to
forgive.
No cloistered peace
withdrawn from life's affrays, but something
found
in unexpected places, soon passed by
and often
disregarded.
Peace, God's gift,
whose tender flame can be so quickly
quenched,
brings to a dying world undying hope.
From Harden Not Your Hearts