Preston Guild Poem Winner: Proud of Preston by Lorna Smithers

(Congratulations Lorna! Here is the Preston Guild Poem for everyone to enjoy)

Belisama*:

Proud of Preston heed my entry
Hear the voice of ancient memories
Hearts purloined by Roman sentries
Like a river shining bright.

Proud of Preston born free traders

Made by commerce and hard labour
Merchants gilded artists favored
Like the Brigantes warred in tribes.  

Mechanics shift the scene of battle

Raise the red brick smog industrial
Cording hearts like twisting material
On the wheels of the cotton lords.

Step the Chartists to the engines

Pull the plugs release the tension
The rioters face the sentries
Dye the river dark with blood.

Grey arise the business faceless

Fake fulfillment for the faithless
Mass the market for the tasteless
Selling life for capital. 

High in the stone fortress

The sentries hold their rule
Beyond the mall and office
Do you hear a river call?

Proud of Preston I have carved you

In my sweeping spirit formed you
Through your veins floods dazzling water
My Setantii shining bright.

Will you hearken to my entry

Drown false dreams in ancient memories
Will the proud of Preston
Like a shining river rise?

*Belisama is the goddess of the Ribble

Jackie Hayes Poem Winner: Dancers, Avenham by Melissa Lee-Houghton

The couple were dancing, under the pavilion, grotty and not

unscathed.  In dark blue and black three figures lurched and held on
to each other like cannibals.
 
The woman held onto shopping bags, only half full,
and with bleached hair and new trainers she scuffed her shoes
kicking at the ground as though to find water.
 

On a Monday afternoon with the sun petering out

In the jaundice rain that could sink a dinghy
there were worse places to be and these three knew it –

an excursion to Avenham park with its lawns mowed so perfectly

And the little roof over their wet heads,
The sky the colour of the flesh of an apple.

The couple were dancing. Grotty, not unscathed. Black and blue,

three figures holding on like cannibals,
the sun receding.  No music, the company of new scars.

Shopping bags and bleached hair, singed eyelashes,

she scuffed her shoes having not worn heels for a decade,
and a can of coke was cheaper than water.

The sun petering out, in rain that

if you were dying, would be magnificent-
she rocked on her heels, looking out –

perfect lawns and shelter; wringing their hair dry –

they could make their own warmth if they danced,
This sky the colour of the bitten flesh of a ripe apple.