Poem - Blankney In Summer

Another poem from my 'Blankney Anthology' written in 1995. It tries to depict an idyllic summer day in the village.

Blankney In Summer

See the swallows flying high
In the summer haze
Dive and swoop upon the fly
Happy summer days
From the shade of spreading trees
Listen to the drones
Of a far off distant bi-plane
As it's engine spits and groans
Hear the crack of willow
As it whacks the cricket ball
And two embracing lovers
Walk in the grounds of Blankney Hall
Pigeons from the belfry coo
Tall keksey flanks the lanes
And in the park, children play
Making daisy chains
Soon the sun sets in the west
The sky glows crimson red
Swallows now return to nest
The bi-plane silent overhead
The cricket match is lost and won
The final ball's been bowled
Golfers seek the clubhouse bar
The last putt has been holed
Lovers kiss and say goodbye
Parting brings such sorrow
Daisies scattered on the ground
Will have wilted by tomorrow
Pigeons in their lofty tower
Heads tucked in downy feather
If only such a summers day
Could go on and on forever

Rodney Garlant

Poem - Blankney In Autumn

Another poem from my Blankney Anthology written in 1995.

Blankney In Autumn

The season changes once again
The fields look bare and thin
Softened now by Autumn rain
The harvest gathered in
Summers green gives way to gold
The ploughman earns his living
And in the church, both young and old
Gather for thanksgiving
Woodland walks show us now
The village at its best
Cascading leaves, shed as trees
Prepare for winters rest
Tall chimney pots puff smoke again
As through the gathering gloom
Firelight flickers on window panes
To light a cosy room
So hurry home with hastened stride
The hooting owl is calling
There's no place like a fireside
When Autumn leaves are falling

Rodney Garlant

Poem - Blankney Hunt

The annual meet of the Blankney Hunt takes place in the village each November. Horses and hounds come together at the entrance to Blankney park, whilst refreshments are laid-on for riders and followers in the old Blankney schoolhouse.

Blankney Hunt

A bright and crisp November morn
The Hunt will meet today
To answer the call of the huntsman's horn
Another fox to slay
But first the meet in Blankney school
Where lessons no longer taught
Have never been learned by those
Who gather for whisky and port
Sense the excitement
At the gates of the park
As the horses grow restless
And hounds start to bark
A magnificent sight for all to behold
As riders in scarlet and black
Set off, for the chase is about to unfold
The quarry pursued by the pack
This country pursuit with its splendour and pomp
A tradition it has to be said
Enjoyed by all who took part in the romp
Except for the fox who lies dead

Rodney Garlant

Poem - Blankney Encounter

The location for this poem is the private coach road that runs between Blankney Hall and Blankney and Metheringham station. It was written in 1995.

Blankney Encounter

The day was hot and sunny
As I fended off the midge
I was walking from Blankney to Metheringham
And as I neared the hump-back bridge
I met a man with a monocle
Walking the other way
As we passed he raised his hat
And passed the time of day
'Excuse me sir, are you from this place'
The old gentleman enquired
'I knew it many years ago'
His face looked old and tired
'What happened to that fine old Hall
That stood just over there'
I told him fifty years before
It was ravished by fire, beyond repair
He said 'I remember the stables
Long before the war
What a shame they are so neglected
Don't they hunt and shoot anymore'
'Yes' said I 'they still hunt and shoot
But today it is far less grand'
A wry smile came over the old mans face
'Ah' said he 'I understand'
'At least' said he 'the school has survived
'How many pupils attend'
'None' I replied and the old man gasped
'Even that has come to an end'
He shook my hand and thanked me
And then we both walked on
I turned around to ask his name
But strangely he was gone
That night by the fire, I sat and read
About the village in days of old
And as I slowly turned the page
I felt my blood run cold
For there before me, staring out
From the pages of this chronicle
The man I met whilst on my walk
Henry Chaplin and his monocle

Rodney Garlant