Haworth Hodgkinson

Born in Lancashire, but resident in North-East Scotland for twenty years, Haworth Hodgkinson writes poetry and short stories and is involved in music and theatre. He performs with the Blue Salt Collective and is the Founder and Director of Aberdeen's Wordfringe festival. His poetry has appeared in various literary magazines and his collection A Weakness for Mermaids is to be published by Koo Press in 2007.

ANCIENT HISTORY

Millions of years ago
when continental drift was all the rage
Scotland lay at ease across the equator.

Along came England from the south,
rammed into us and butted us into colder climes.

Not that we bear a grudge, you understand.

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CATERPILLAR'S LIFE

The caterpillar,
living in a jam jar,
ate leaves to dispel
the urge to wriggle
and cause earthquakes
in Australia.

Smooth-skinned,
he preferred shiny leaves,
but ate what he was given.

One day he stopped eating
and hid in a chrysalis tent.
For a week
we wondered what he was doing.

Then on Sunday,
half way through Desert Island Discs
(the castaway was some explorer
who had been the first
to cross the Antarctic
in a caravan),
we noticed the tent was unzipped.

We watched in amazement
as the caterpillar crawled out
and ate more leaves.

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GREEN AND GOLD AND BLUE AND WHITE

The morning after the Celtic twilight
sheep are heading westwards to the shore,
ears curled against the dreadful noise
of the fields that were once their fertile home.
The boatman will take them to a greener land.

The trees, less mobile, stand and wave their arms,
whistling a happy song.

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BALGOWNIE SWANSONG

Young and old
cross the high pointed arch,
Pause at the apex
to study the river.

Ducks try to stand on the scatterdrop surface,
reach for the leafy sky.
A detached log lies in wait.

On a patch of muddy shore
a lone figure stands fishing, sings:

I’ll still be here long after you’ve left;
when you return I’ll have gone.

A notice details by-laws:
no bathing or wading:
protection from age old pollution.

Low trees dip branches in forbidden waters
as chickweed emerges from the tide.

A hundred miles and half as many years upstream,
the fisherman swims in clear water.

But this is a land
not for children,
not for the ever-was child:
a bridge from executive cottar town
to concrete student village.

Sounds of tennis court
and football field
mark serious play
from the day’s hard work.

Anxious at midsummer’s end,
crows bugle from their lofty barracks.
Wood pigeons roost.

Sodium lights awake, reflecting in the water
the sandstone granite patchwork.

Featherflies circle.

Couples linger a moment,
hear the screaming bellbirds and chattering leaves
then, shivering, move on.

Swansong at evenfall,
fisherman murmurs:

I’ll still be here long after you’ve left;
when you return I’ll have gone.

I’ll still be here long after you’ve left;
when you return I’ll have gone.

I’ll still be here long after you’ve left;
when you return I’ll have gone.

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