all poems copyright Sue Aldred


Two versions of this poem exist: which do you prefer and why?

Bridge 73 Grand Union

it was a turquoise sky, faint scrawls of cloud on it

after the empty plate-glass offices, acres of windscreens,
stalled carriages with their tagged embellishments,
flyovers, rusted rails, rampant bramble ready to flower
and pubs plastered with crosses of St George,
the train slid over the bend of the still canal

over platform heat and down the metal steps
under the eyeless railway shed’s imposing shade
scent of rambling rose on the way down
to the towpath’s curve under road and rail’s
doublecrossing

the boat silent in sunshaft
on a grateful afternoon
waiting to resume

she stirs to life
the engine heartbeats a mere rustle
while a heron’s skeletal profile
so intent on something beneath
the weedy surface, suddenly
takes to the air

wings’ opening effort turning to a glide
a dancer’s sweep
and up as though it had not been so hard

to settle on the gentle bridge-curve
turning beak and bead on the boat
below

Version 2


Grand Union

The sky is turquoise with faint scrawls of cloud,
and after the empty plate-glass offices, acres of windscreens,
stalled carriages with tagged embellishments,

flyovers, rusted rails, rampant bramble ready to flower
and pubs plastered with crosses of St George,
the train slides over the bend of the still canal.

From the heat-shimmering platform, down the metal steps
and under the eyeless railway shed’s imposing shade,
the scent of rambling rose breathes welcome –

as far as the towpath’s curve under the road
and rail’s doublecrossing,
to the boat silent in sunshaft;

her engine heartbeats a mere rustle, stirring to life.

A heron’s question-mark,
till then intent on something underneath the weedy surface,
suddenly takes to the air.

His wings’ opening effort turns to a low glide,
a dancer’s sweep with trailing feet and up
as though it had not been so hard

to settle on the gentle bridge-curve,
turning beak and bead on the boat
below.

Shakespeare Country

Like picking up stitches on a raglan sleeve
we thread across Mary Arden’s wheatfield
whose stalks though green are nearly ripe.

The lark is the only song. Shoulder pain
slants down my arm, and when we reach
the tourist garden, the pied wagtail
shows us his example.

Curfew, the guide says, is putting out fires and lights.
(It makes more sense in Spanish.)
Shakespeare is the reason we made it here.
His special train takes three hours and is
gorgeous. Looking up we see
the gaudy open top of the bus floating above the hedge.

Complaints of lambs are loud as the lark
now, for the sadness of what will not be.
When we rouse ourselves to return after cream teas
across the bridge slotted for the towrope
we are in an ecstasy

that people come, there is a Post Office,
train, bus, pub, canal…Oh, thank you Will,
not simply for your plays!


Mary Arden's House, Wilmcote, near Stratford upon Avon