The Abingdon one way system continues to confuse drivers from other places. On the High Street a lorry stopped to ask directions.
Meanwhile on the Market Place the Christmas decorations had been taken down and were about to be taken away for another year.
Along Bridge Street there were police cars and ambulances near the Old Gaol. In other times I might have gone to have a look.
But today I seemed to be following a bread lorry. It was now stopped near Waitrose and a local man was giving clear directions to help it find the Co-op.
The UK Bread Marketing Report says the lockdown has provided opportunities to the bread industry. More people are making their breakfast and lunch at home and could be using bread.
Alone I wander by the Thames
beside the Anchor inn and
in the space between deep
night and effervescent break of day
ghostly and grey
dawn the shadows of Brick Alley
over the broad flags
next to St Helen’s church.
Across the river
birdsong greets the dawn,
indifferent to my solitude,
needing only small
glimmerings of light
dappling pearlescent water to
orchestrate yet one more time
new life in Abingdon.
Paul Sheppy
2021
Thanks to Paul for an entry. A book of poems with pictures will be produced in the autumn – to be called Ten Poems About Abingdon.
Like many people we have not been out a lot since lockdown 3 started on January 5th. A surge of Covid-19 cases led to hospital intensive care units becoming full, or near capacity, and so the government put in place this lockdown.
Today we stayed in, and I waited for visitors to come to us – for some pictures for the blog.
The birds must have plenty of other food out there because our well stocked bird feeder doesn’t seem to be getting many visitors this winter. I did see a flurry of sparrows at breakfast and then it was quiet again.
There have also been lone blue tits that flit in quickly and away again.
A Wood Pigeon landed in one of the trees. Usually the other birds throw so much food about that there is lots on the ground for Wood Pigeons to vacuum up, but not today.
A flock of pigeons circles round one of the houses in St Helen’s Court.
Flocks of gulls glide over as the sun goes down.
Willoughby Weaving attended Abingdon School, and Pembroke College. He was a teacher in Ireland and signed up at the start of the first World War to serve in the Royal Irish Rifles. After being invalided out, he returned to teach and became a prolific poet. He is now mostly forgotten apart from some war poems – revisited during the recent 100 year remembrance of the first world war). Here is a poem written in 1920
Before Thunder
In one vast cloud the skies were clad;
There was a silence worse than sound
Discordant, such as makes men mad
In muffled dungeons underground,
When first they sing, and scream to save
Their deafening reason from the grave,
That living grave of worse than death.
There was no stir of lightest breath
But hot stagnation in the air
Like a suspended horror there
Poised at its utmost by the stress
Of unimaginable excess
Birth-bound. Then suddenly at last
The lightening like a lancet passed,
And all that fierce and maddening strain
Fell ruining with routs of rain.
Ian Pindar first came to public attention after the National Poetry Competition in 2009. You can read his successful poem, Mrs Beltinska in the Bath, at https://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/poets/ian-pindar/. Ian was interviewed by the Oxford Mail and said “The reason I love poetry is because it is ambiguous – there is mystery there.”
Here Ian is reading one of his poems from a collection called Constellations
Andrew Jamison is another contemporary poet who works as a teacher at Abingdon School. He comes from Ireland. Here is Andrew reading September
Another poet who attended Abingdon School was Phanuel Bacon. He became a clergyman in the mid 1700s. One of his poems can be found on a very specific blog called The snipe in Literature where you can read the full poem.
The Snipe
I’ll tell you a story, a story that’s true,
A story that’s dismal, and comical too;
It is of a Friar, who some people think,
Tho’ as sweet as a nut, might have dy’d of a stink.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
This Friar would often go out with his gun,
And tho’ no great marksman, he thought himself one;
For tho’ he for ever was wont to miss aim,
Still something but never himself was to blame.
Derry down, &c.
It happen’d young Peter, a friend of the Friar’s,
With legs arm’d with leather, for fear of the briars,
Went out with him once, tho’ it signifies not
Where he hired his gun, or who tick’d for the shot.
Derry down, &c.
Away these two trudg’d it, o’er hills and o’er dales,
They popt at the partridges, frighten’d the quails;
But, to tell you the truth, no great mischief was done,
Save spoiling the proverb, as sure as a gun.
Derry down, &c.
But at length a poor Snipe flew direct in the way,
In open defiance, as if he would say,
“If only the Friar and Peter are there,
I’ll fly where I list, there’s no reason to fear.”
Derry down, &c.
