Image copyright The Frances Frith Collection.

Back in 2021, I was commissioned at part of Bury’s Town of Culture to create a series of poems in responses to the history of the town- I realised recently that although they were performed and displayed at Bury Art Museum, they were never published anywhere so I am going to post all five over the next few weeks. Each one involved walking these places I am familiar with, reconnect with them and then digging deep in the archives to find hidden stories.

The rock

Dark night, full moon

A burning trail across the night sky

A meteorite, big as a house

Slams into ancient Bury.

The Rock.

The druids gathered

Dark night to bright morning

The chants raising to a crescendo as the sun peeks perfectly over the holy stone.

It is summer, the solstice

The Rock.

Tied fast with both hands.

Guilty as charged.

A thief and a drunkard.

Three days, publicly shamed.

Like Prometheus tied.

The Rock.

“The Romans brought it”

“No I heard the Celts”

“There is no rock on the rock, the rock was a road, or a river or something”

But the stories?

Just rumours,

But the tales

They will tell.

Look now – and the story is you.

Every shining glass surface,

Reflects us now.

Who we are.

Our head briefly and awkwardly poised on mannequins before we move on,

Their outstretched hands

 welcome us, but don’t know us,

As we pass between,

Buy,

And leave.

Never noticing the path, the river, the road or the route

That brought us here

The foundation that everything was built upon

The Rock.

So when the bags are not too heavy,

Or you have a moment to spare,

Find the gravestones they left.

The stone road,

That will lead you back,

To the heart, the centre

The Rock.