Events

Walking into the Past On a winter’s day with friends; The Heavens, where Bisley sat In the cleavage of the hills. Sunlight and clean bright water Pooled together to concentrate life, To bring people, sheep, grass and stone; Final gifting, leats, to complete this idyllic painting. But nostalgia has rubbed out the old noises, The clatterings, natterings and smashings, The belchings and smellings Of smoke and dust from frost cracked stones. From wheels grinding and spinning, Weaving and teasing out life From Blake’s little lambs ‘Over the stream and o’er the mead.’ Time passes, erases and changes Those borders and walls, that noise and smoke, Leaving only brambles and twists of the stream Where we clung to life on the sunny side of the hill. (Martin Hoffman) The Heavens The snow wandered into Stroud on a gusting wind, Leaving a Lowry scene of red brick factories, Serrated roofs, and mouldering mills, All garlanded with icicles. There was a silence that yearned for horse hooves. Children tobogganed down car-free roads, Matchstick women, men and tufted dogs Tottered along the freezing canal towpath. The fields at The Heavens were shrouded, Though Thomas Bewick branches Etched a January-tree-tapestry, Across the muffled, white clad fields. We walked down Daisy Bank and Spider Lane, Past medieval window panes and casements, Beyond the spring line below Field House, To walk a footpath, once the main route to Lypiatt. We marked hidden ruins by the first cottages, The search for water and daylight, Obvious in the silver afternoon sky And spring line emerald fronds. Sliding through...