Kathleen Swann

She is crow

wraithlike shape perched

on rough black rocks

calls to the sky with dry parched voice

windswept ragged coat unravels

shreds peel to cloud

swirl into feathers

form into wings

lift her to air

fly

Gavin Lewis

‘I remember when this were all trees’ said the man, his grey whiskered face set in a look that said he was busy remembering some distant past.

‘It still is all trees’ said the woman next to him on the bench, without looking up from her newspaper. 

‘Yes, but I remember when it was… more tree-ish’ he nodded to himself, happy that he had navigated a tricky observation from his wife.  She was good at those.  Good at them and good at knowing when he was avoiding doing the chores he had been designated custodian of.  As he sat basking in the freezing cold winter that York occasionally gave into, he relished the fact that normally at this time he would be elbow deep in peeling spuds, carrots and parsnips, but quick thinking and a small win on the lottery had made him suggest Sunday lunch out, with a stop off at the park on the way.

‘You’ll find that Rowntree Park was created in 1921 and since that time, has largely stayed the same’ she said.  When he least expected it, she would know these types of things.

‘Well, I don’t think they had skate parks or basketball courts in 1921’ he guffawed, as only someone born pre-1960 could.  Anyone born after this time laughed sarcastically.

‘Of course, they were a later addition, dear’ It puzzled him that he wasn’t allowed to get away with tricky observations himself, that there seemed to be an unwritten rule that his wife was the pre-eminent holder of tricky observations in their marriage, whilst he was seconded to the role of a subordinate lackey. Ok, there were occasional instances when he was allowed to have free reign over decisions, as was right and proper for a man in a relationship where he was number two breadwinner, and second in line to the throne of matriarch (though lately he suspected that should the throne be contested, his eldest daughter would unfairly claim top spot on the technical point of being a woman).

Right here and now though, he was master of his own domain, king of the park bench, this quiet corner of a properly ordered garden, with the sounds of the gentle if chilly wind blowing through the trees (which he was sure there were more of when he was younger), and the odd snippet of overheard conversation as fellow people wandered around for a constitutional.

He wondered for a moment what a constitutional actually was, but deeming it pretentious at best to use in actual conversation, discarded it as unnecessary to know.

A squirrel, one of them grey buggers that he’d been told had invaded Britain to the detriment of the reds, came loping over the grass, bold as brass towards them. 

‘Look at him, plucky little fella.’ The squirrel dodged closer past unseen possible swipes and stamps, until he was sniffing the toe of his shoe. ‘Are they supposed to be out at this time of year?’ he said quietly.

‘I don’t know dear’

‘Hmmm.  I thought they hibernated or something.  Like bears.’  He thought, staring into the unblinking eyes of the squirrel that seemed to have frozen to the ground. ‘And dormice.’ He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye.  He was on safe ground; she really didn’t know what creatures hibernated. ‘And of course, your turtles.  Little known fact that.’  Victory.  He was pretty sure he’d read once that a type of turtle hibernated, or seen it on an Attenborough documentary.

‘Turtles?’ She asked.

‘Yep, turtles’ A victory for husband kind.

The squirrel was still there.  He gently rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the handful of nuts he brought with him every time they came to the park, just in case one of the squirrels, just like this one, was hungry. 

‘I don’t think you are supposed to feed them, dear’ she said without looking up.

‘Hang on’ he looked around, ‘nope, the park police aren’t around so I think we’re safe this time’.  He scattered some nuts on the ground and the squirrel moved like lightning to start picking them up, oblivious to his tutting wife.

‘Do you reckon they are happier than us?’ he said.  He didn’t know where that thought had come from, as it didn’t sound like something he would say, and that was himself thinking that.

She had looked up from her paper, a sign that what had just been said had been of serious enough concern for her marital radar to warrant the raising of the Wifely Periscope. ‘Are you happy, dear?’

‘Yes, yes, I didn’t mean I weren’t unhappy.’ He pulled out his best “everything-is-just-fine” smile and went back to watching the squirrel.  She hadn’t gone back to looking at the paper, which meant another question was on the way.  He needed to appease her so he could get on with observing the squirrel in peace.

‘You’d tell me if you were unhappy, wouldn’t you dear?’

‘Oh yes.  I’m always happy though so no need to worry.’  He could feel her regarding him for a moment longer before the periscope of worry went back down into reading the paper.

The squirrel meanwhile had gathered all of the nuts in a mad toing and froing from base of bench to some safe nut house in the trees, and was busily checking the ground for any it had missed.  Amazing creatures really, so busy and living in the, now he looked around him, quite a few trees that inhabited Rowntree Park.  All in all, it was a wonderful place to pass some time on a lazy Sunday, even in winter.

He caught sight of the Spartan helmet statue.  What on earth was that all about?

The paper rustled beside him as his wife folded it away.

‘Ready for a spot of lunch?’ He asked.

‘Oh yes.  I might even have a g&t’ she smiled at him.  God, she looked good, even after all these years.  The squirrels and their busyness, and random Spartan helmets would all be here next Sunday, and the Sunday after that, and all the Sundays he could want to foresee, but here and now was the best Sunday, as they got up from their bench and slowly their chatting voices faded as they walked out through the trees.

Rebecca Sutcliffe (age 12)

The painted lady dances,

Upon her summer-time stage,

Her dress is white, and orange, and black,

But yet she cannot stay,

When the weather begins to cool,

When the evenings darken,

When the blue cornflower,

When the scarlet poppy,

When the mane of the dandelion,

When the delicate cow parsley,

All begin to fade,

Then the painted lady,

The painted dancing lady,

Upon the curtain will fall.

Logan Pawley – Age 7

Crazy snow excites

A million flakes falling

Whirling in the gusts 

Duncan Bartlett

I remember being captivated by the cascading waterfall,

As it crashed over the rocks by the long gone ice cream stall.

I remember fish in the still waters under Mercury’s watchful eyes,

And listening to the brass band underneath summer’s azure skies.

I remember paddling and splashing in a pool in the open air,

My red yacht sailing on the pond with the slightest breath of air.

I remember moving away and leaving all the memories behind,

Pastures new were calling and there were new adventures to find.

I remember the years rolled by and the wanderer made his return,

Many changes filled his eyes in the city that he yearned.

I remember my blushing bride clinging to me as we walked,

First along the riverbank, kicking leaves up as we talked.

I remember returning to the park and the memories from before,

Now with children of my own it was time for them to explore.

I remember the pool, the fish, the bandstand had sadly disappeared,

Long gone was the waterfall, no ice creams and my eyes teared.

I remember times move on, we could see a board and roller park,

Basketball hoops, table tennis had now taken up their mark.

We remember walking a little further, there was a stirring in my soul,

There it was, in front of us, my rock, my fort, my goal.

I remember that was my bench, slightly warped, a split, a crack,

There it was with open arms and that sturdy oaken back.

I remember seeing initials carved which somehow gave it charm,

Memories of lovers, just like us, sat gazing in each other’s arms.

We remember all those times, sitting, watching our children grow,

Now the bench takes on a different form which nobody could know.

We remember, we will always remember 2020 and time beyond,

We sit on that bench with our memories in the reflection of the pond.

We remember the loved ones who have left us sadly all too soon,

We reflect on their lives as we sit there howling at the moon.

We will always remember sitting on our bench, it’s our escape,

As we sit and watch the world go by in this meaningful parkscape.

Bill Beaumont (York resident and friend of Rowntree Park)

(With acknowledgment and apologies to Kenneth Grahame – Wind in the Willows)

In Rowntree Park, down on the lake,

By the grass and trees so tall,

Ducks and coots are a-dabbling,

Up tails all.

Ducks and drakes and coots tails,

Pointing up toward the sky,

Their heads down underwater,

No sound, no call or cry.

Feeding as they float along,

Just where they love to be,

Heads down and tails up,

Dabbling free.

Throughout the park folk come and go,

Children run and play and fall,

And the water fowl are still a-dabbling,

Up tails all.

Katy Brown

Through autumn, summer, winter and spring.

This park brings us joy, in the memories it brings.

Annie jumps in puddles, while Max counts the ducks.

Mrs B at number 6 reminisces old memories, with one of her heartfelt looks.

It’s the crunch of the leaves, the glisten of light on the pond.

It’s the adventures that await our children, which is why we are so fond.

From a child to an adult, I have walked this park.

The sounds of laughter and conversations and a new puppy’s bark.

We share it with the squirrels, the ducks and the geese.

But it’s when we see the white doves kissing, that we really find our peace.

So come sit, come natter.

We are all friends at Rowntree.

Read, eat, drink and play.

Get lost amongst life and just be.