Comments Off on Spring Heeled Jack o’ Sheffield

Spring Heeled Jack o’ Sheffield

Posted February 21st, 2014 in Poetry by briansellars

Spring Heeled Jack ‘o
 Sheffield
 
  Prowls Spring Heeled Jack on nights of black;
  The steel city’s leaping ghoul.
  In filth he scroams Satan’s foul domes,
  Hunting the unwary fool.
 
  One face time weather’d, spring heels unleather’d,
  He watches with baleful gaze.
  In dark his other, self-same not brother,
  Drags liars to his maze.
 
  Jack leaps o’er spires, sucks life from liars,
  Garners proud talking fools.
 From dungeons deep on them he’ll  leap,                                                                              Those keenest of Satan’s tools.
 
 From lost stone ways, or oak beamed his gaze,
 Sees all and waits to leap.
Proud liars beware the night’s dark air,
Spring Heeled Jack will never sleep.

spring heeled jack2

Carving of Jack on a beam end of Queens Head pub (circa 1495) Sheffield

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Waterfall Swallet, Eyam.

Posted May 25th, 2013 in Historical, Uncategorized by briansellars

swallet Panorama1

 

 

 

 

 

Waterfall Swallet near Eyam.

How could anywhere with such   a fascinating name not be  worth a visit?  Swallet is an old Derbyshire  lead mining term for a place  where water breaks into a mine. From Roman times, water was a major problem for Eyam’s miners burrowing through the limestone beneath their village. Waterfall Swallet lies on a beautiful, wooded hillside below an escarpment called Eyam Edge. A scatter of ancient, now disused lead mines, surround it, though it was never a mine itself. It is a secret waterfall.

Few people find it, yet each year hundreds visit Eyam to see the Plague Cottages and hear the story of how, in 1665, the villagers chose to quarantine themselves and wait to die, rather than risk spreading the plague – the virulent killer, that, according to the story, arrived in a wedding dress. You may be thinking, it was not the first, nor last time that terror arrived in a wedding dress. I could not possibly comment.
Take the Foolow road from Eyam. About 2 miles on, before you get to Waterfall Farm, the Swallet can be found beyond the dry stone wall on your right. It’s a sinkhole into which tumbles a beautiful secret waterfall.
It was the reason I chose Eyam as a location in my novel, The Whispering Bell. I remember standing, watching the waterfall, and wondering how many thousands of years nature had taken to complete its sculpture.
Eyam, the name comes from the old English for island, or land between waters, stands above and between many little streams and brooks. The limestone beneath it is riddled with caves. Even Eyam church was said to stand over Carlswark Cavern, one of the biggest. I hope not. My 17th century ancestors are buried near the sacristy door there. I would hate to think their coffins just dropped, unceremoniously down into caves below when they buried them.

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My Dad Built Bury Barracks

Posted December 3rd, 2012 in Blogs, Poetry by briansellars

MY DAD BUILT BURY BARRACKS         Brian Sellars  03/12/2012

My dad built Bury Barracks.
I think he did it him sen.
He could lift Mrs Thackery’s stone sink,
And he built us a chicken pen.
 
He grew spuds, reight big fat red ‘ens,
Onions and runner beans.
If his motor bike spluttered, he’d fix it,
He could orlas mend cranky machines.
 
He could plaster a wall wi’ no trouble at all,
Hang a door, or restring a sash.
If a ball bounced anywhere near him,
He’d orlas set off at a dash.
 
He taught me to swim like a good ‘en,
I never feared watta  like cats.
He could waltz the Valeta and Tango,
And only Bogart had better ‘ats.
 
His bacon and eggs topped me mother’s,
We’d eight it when he were on neets.
I’d creep dahn stairs in me ‘jamas,
When he came ‘ome through t’dawn weshed  streets.
 
He worked in t’steelworks on t’stage,
Norra stage like his pal Ben Warris.
This were arc furnaces lined up in a row.
Mekkin steel wi’ ore dug from quarries.
 
They paid him extra and called it Hot Money,
But that weren’t all that me owd dad got.
Silica dust, toxic heat and burnt air,
Took aim with its deadly shot.
 
His big hands were still rough and strong,
As I held ‘em in that hospital bed.
He smiled and said “Love your mother,”
And that were it, he were gone, he were  dead.
 
I gerrim in whiffs of Imperial  Leather,
As I’m ambling along some cold street.
He’s there in the park when a goal’s scored.
He’s in shoe polish, and carving the meat.
 
How I wish that God had not left me,
And that cold science did not prevail.
For I’d still have me dad to look forward to,
When I reach the end of my trail.
 
Note: My old dad worked on Bury Barracks as a young apprentice bricklayer.
A silly joke in the family was that he’d built the whole thing himself (be him sen) 
Comments Off on Poppy

Poppy

Posted April 12th, 2011 in Audio, Blogs, Poetry by briansellars


Poppy

A mardy arse is Poppy,
She’s all-ass roorin and playin up.
She can’t run nor climb nor kick a ball,
She just pretends and meks stuff up.

I wish she were like me moor,
And not so soft and girly.
I wish she’d av her hair cut,
And not all long and curly.

Me mam’s asked her to me birthday,
It’s because this time I’m ten.
I’m hopin’ that she waint come,
Cos lads are best bi us sen.

Ayup, she’s coming nah,
Wearing shorts and a frilly vest.
She looks or-reight in that,
When she scrubbed up in her best.

I hope she’s glad to see me,
She’ll see I’m gerring bigger.
Her hair is looking nicer,
And by eck she’s gorra figure.

I’m glad she’s not like me moor,
She’s quite nice all soft and girly.
I just hope that she still likes me,
And dunt go home too early.

It dunt matter if she cant feight,
And who needs to kick a ball.
Thiz moor to life than feighting,
And Poppy’s gorrit all.