The Birdman of Goldenhill

by Noel Connor

They’re dumping again
half way down Hollywall Lane,
at least they were last night,
pulling in tight to the bend
and chucking their unwanteds
all over the earthy bank.
It’s happened here for years,
a mangled pushchair,
a mattress unsprung
from someone’s boot,
or bags of garden spoil
and a scatter of sad cushions
sodden by the roadside.

This time last year
the council came and tidied up,
dressed the bank in fresh turf
and swept the glass away,
and sure enough the dumping stopped.
But today, a cheap windbreak
is beached by the roadside,
the frayed and flapping nylon
the stranded gaudy stripes
and spindly wooden poles
all collapsed and crooked,
like some crazy ditched up birdman,
our local Icarus, crash landed
just short of Goldenhill.


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new-2From my home on the high ground at the very edge of the Staffordshire Moorlands, I can see six counties. These far views have always seemed to make me even more aware of exactly where I stand, where I have chosen to locate myself for over thirty years.
Adding my voice to the other voices in this Staffordshire Poetry Collection, feels like we are all supporting the poet Patrick Kavanagh’s conviction that ‘we have lived in important places’.
I completely share that conviction, and in my visual work and poetry I have always tried to capture the extraordinary in the ordinary, the exceptional in the everyday, the beautiful in the banal.