Worthing Borough Council

Poetry in the Park

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01273 263134

parksandforeshore@adur-worthing.gov.uk

On Patrol By Police Community Support Officer Kevin Brown of Sussex Police

Inspired by Homefield Park

By night my footsteps echo on the path as I walk in the dark, the orange glow of the hospital’s lights shining like a setting sun.

Every sound quiet or loud explodes from the darkness as a dog and it’s owner join me on their own late night patrol, we smile and nod as we pass each other.

I stand in the skate park for a moment checking every corner with my torch, the stillness and silence of the night never seen in day light.

The tranquil silence only broken by the sound of my radio bursting to life.

By day the staff from the hospital smile in a welcome greeting as I pass, one child always smiles and waves as I stop to check the play area, I smile back and wave, longing for my rest day to come so that I may take my son to the park.

That same radio that shattered the stillness of the park at night sounds so different in the light as my instructions are passed. “Clear the field the helicopter needs to land”.

The field clear, everyone comes to see as the helicopters rotors blow a striking wind across the park, that same boy now stunned with the sight and excitement of being so close.

Then more wind and it’s gone, patient delivered to the hospitals care. All is still again and the dogs who had been held so tight a moment ago now run and play on the grass.

It’s time to move on. . .

Old Folk in the Gardens by Elizabeth Waring

Usually they stroll
in groups of three,
two men and a woman
two women and a man.
Grief walks along
as the missing fourth.

Heads close together
as deaf ears harvest
secrets of grafting
naming of species.
Lost generations
naming of secrets.

All angst and passion
blowing like dust -
a chill fear gusts them.

The park may be closing.

The Invisible Woman by Marion Sharville

Spring lowers the drawbridge,
the park bench beckons.

She breathes release from four walls
watching a squirrel skitter to its larder.

A young man swings along the path,
head clamped in sound.

Entwined, a couple linger,
blinkered by love.

Children dash past,
vandalising the silence.

No-one looks back.

'Ah, Amelia Park' by Terry Westwood

A small world within a world, a microcosm within the macrocosm, it sits in an age old silent vigil as our busy lives rush by. An island amongst the rivers of hewn metal, that pours through our active coastal town. Unknown to many, it rests calmly like an oasis in a jungle of commerce.

To gain entrance you have to walk through its main portal and pass under the baleful glare of the stone Socratic heads that see all. Amelia Park was created and built by Amos Henry Wilds in 1830, (although named in 1950); to accompany the elegant regency terrace called Park Crescent. Where its inhabitants can look benignly on to it, the high houses resemble pearly white teeth biting into a lettuce leaf that is its rolling lawn.

In and around the lawn, there is a sprinkling of mature and growing trees that thicken as they extend right up to the encircling flint-stone wall, with a copse of high foliage that helps shield the noise and view as the unsuspecting traffic, ebbs and flows past.

It’s the autumnal colours of the trees that reveal its true splendour, from the russet brown of the Horse Chestnut to the deep copper of the Beech and onto the glorious gold of the Maples.

This small park shrouded in beauty, although hidden from the busy road, can be a hectic thorough-fare. It has many interesting inhabitants and visitors, from the early flow of excited children’s voices who walk through the park to attend the schools nearby, to the dog walkers. You can watch the grey squirrels and the pigeons forage around the edges; the crows that have no friends ignore the pigeons but scuttle and squawk at the squirrels. New residents are a magnificent pair of magpies, cousins to the crows but more refined.

Then there are the dogs and their walkers, who spend precious time together. A mix of leather collared mutts that perform their strange rituals on the grass and around the trees, the stick, the ball, they cavort and frolic in their leash-less space. As evening approaches, the dogs, whose favourite blood sport has been to chase sprightly squirrels, now tremble with unease as they know it’s the time of the feral foxes to take over the park.

It is at night when the revellers of Beechwood Hall have gone home, that the other faces emerge. The resident barn owl swoops and settles in the big Horse Chestnut tree hooting at the moon, and then a new presence is heard, a slight rustle in the bushes as grey vulpine shapes move around. Because at night, when all are tucked up in bed, you can then hear the falsetto cough of the fox’s bark, an eerie sound that emanates from the bushy edges of the park. Where they come from no one knows.  If you wait in silence, out of the scent carrying wind you will see the vixen emerge with its cubs, with the males foraging the edges. The Owls hoot in harmony as they settle in.

For now the night creatures are in charge.

When daylight returns again to reveal the secrets of Amelia Park, it can be visited once more, by a procession of jaded souls who wish to drink in its beauty and tranquillity.

Come and Play On Sunny Worthing's Doorstep
(To the Tune of Mother Kelly's Doorstep) by Liz O'Donnell

On sunny Worthing's doorstep
down Sussex way,
we all invite you
to come and play.

We've got a park with a lake,
a little train,
a cafe too if it starts to rain,
in Worthing where the folk are pally.

There's a park for bowls
with a great sea view
and flower-beds
to wander through,
and the air's free, nat-ure-ally.

On sunny Worthing's doorstep
if you come today,
you may be tempted
to come to stay.

And you will love it
like we all do,
on sunny Worthing's doorstep
down Sussex way.

Park It (To the beat of "Beat It" by Michael Jackson)
by Liz O'Donnell

Park it here, park it there,
park in Worthing
if you dare!
So park it, park it.

Park it, come and see
the air, the scenery,
the parks all FREE
So park it, park it.

Park by the lake,
Park by the beach,
all the parks
within your reach
So park it, park it.

Kiddies rides, bowls and flowers
cafes galore
to beat the showers
So park it, park it.

P.S. bring the car, if you live too far
And park it, park it, park it (if you can!).

Sunday by Marianne Barber

Resting eyes on
peaceful park
in Spring sunshine.

Sitting on bench
listening to morning breeze.

Leaning over bridge
watching weired waters.

Walking, watching ducks
and licking an ice-cream.

Lunch and lying down;
toasted sandwiches for tea.

Reading papers, writing,
how Sunday should be.

For the need of love by Len Sephton

Broken panels of children's slides
bend the evening light
to reflect the torment that hides
within their teenage plight.
And a purple streak is recognised
as a face with verbal rhymes,
cracked deep in bricked unsavoury lies,
it contorts the children's minds.
And as urban sleep shields their deeds,
they summon up their dark intents
to satisfy their pointless needs,
to them, in innocence.

Hanging, twisted timber stems
shadow hallowed ground,
and darkens ancient monuments,
a memory face down.
So, no words of love and life to see,
just sorrowed stones of grey,
that sleep under leafless canopies,
memories washed away.
And through the mist of clouded eyes,
hangs in saddened solitaire,
a broken heart remembers them
who are sleeping, unaware.

Those who've missed a smiling face,
a mother's love that wasn't there,
and those who've missed a father's grace
have grown up in despair.
They who've never learned to love
and lost the will to speak,
are those who tumble monuments
and spray that purple streak.
So mothers love your children
with smiles and time to share.
Fathers fill their hearts with joy,
and banish their despair.

Highdown Gardens by Gordon Mitchell

(Inspired by Highdown Gardens)

To Worthing's west lies a chalkland treasure
Highdown Garden holds delights beyond measure;
Like Worthing itself, it brings joy all year.
In its downy shelter, of frost there's no fear
As winter trees trace darkening skies,
cascading hellebores open their eyes
to glimpse the snowdrops nodding there.

In warming suns, fountains sparkle in ponds where
soon fish will rise and water lilies twine.
Annuals, perennials and exotic cordyline
are pleased to share Sir Frederick's home.
We, too, enjoy our right to roam
Through Highdown's vistas.
May its stilling calm for long inspire,
and the many charm.

Highdown by Dorothea Hedger

(Inspired by Highdown Gardens)

Set among beautiful trees
and fragrant flowers,
a pleasant way to pass the hours.

The Old Miller looks down
from his tomb, by the light
of the moon.

June by Rilla Dudley

(Inspired by Highdown Gardens)

The garden ran with colours
like a painting left in the rain.
Greens blurred with sky
and blue delphiniums.
Until we stopped by the pond.
I saw the water-lilies.
You saw the fish, opening
their mouths, like you,
with words that had no voice.
And later, I knew the meaning
of the silent scream.
Retuning, we saw pink hollyhocks,
daydreaming for your cottage garden,
and roses.
The fish were hidden.
Our eyes, no longer blurred,
listen to our words
taking on a different reality,
as if the Earth had shuddered.

Autumn by Rilla Dudley

(Inspired by Highdown Gardens)

In the Autumn garden
trees stood like gods,
leaves piled richly
at their feet, glowing
yellow as raw silk.

Leaves, dangling earrings
of garnets and rubies,
suspended delicately from
bones of branches, stirred
at a winds' breath.

Banquets of berries
a Bacchanalian feast,
hung in heavy clusters,
wine red amongst
darker foliage.

In the private silence
of the garden, two birds
flapped noisily away,
as if disapproving of our
intrusion at their feast.

Magic Moment by Jonathan Bryant

(Inspired by Brooklands Park)

Just by the stream in Brooklands Park
one sunny April day
I had a sweet experience
that took my breath away.

I saw an iridescent flash
of light before my eyes
and glimpsed a swiftly moving bird
diminutive in size.

I longed to see it once again
as I sat by the stream
could I have just been dozing off?
or was it just a dream?

I hid behind the willow tree
and peered across the reeds
I scanned the water up and down
just where the minnow feeds.

I heard a splash and looked around
then satisfied my wish
for 'neath the surface seemed to be
a little feathered fish.

It rose up from the rivre-bed
on wings that beat so fast
a small fish glistened in its beak
as it went flying past.

Once more I viewed its brilliance
perched there upon a tree
I feel I have been privileged
to share this memory.

Rainbow Days by Len Sephton

I hear the rain on a soft summer breeze
As it sings a song through leafy trees
And steals the sun in a pearl-drop haze
To paint the sky with rainbow glaze

Then, behind my eyes a memory leaps
Of yellows and reds and liquorice treats
And buttered bread to last the day
With mams and dads in parkland play

My thoughts drift to my Northern Town
Through its dark labyrinth of sullen brown
I run the cobbled streets of grey
And dismal, faceless alleyways

Yet through this maze I forge ahead
Through a childhood gate of iron red
Then still, in a scented park I lay
And plan another day of play

Back now, with that song of summer rain
I’m hurrying through Beach House Park again
As my childhood thoughts slowly retreat
I fumble my bag of liquorice sweets

And through the haze of my grown-up eye
I gaze across a dappled sky
Where beyond the roof of golden green
A rainbow paints its summer scene

One Still Deer by Councillor James Doyle

(Inspired by Honeysuckle Lane)

Along the ridge - beyond where the honeysuckle
Names the lane that binds to the woods and downs those
Homes where only now are they blindly waking,
Careless of wonder -

Walking early, under a scoured sky; dirt
Washed down underfoot to a thousand clouded
Mirrors, silent answers to all the coming 
Questions of autumn.

Reading as I walked out toward the bostal -
Pale finger slipping into a glove of owl-light
Under crowding trees - but always aware, the
Dog leading inward,

I looked up from some other poet's mind; met
Eye to darting eye with a forest shadow:
One still deer, at gaze, as the sun that climbed wept
Gold on the fallow

Kite-strut legs strained tight for escape.  Our fear was
Stal ling tongues, our hearts speaking ever faster;
Silver then she fled into pale-lit beech woods.
Neither the master.

No more reading then, with the moment passing
Even as I reached for it.  It seemed gone, but
As I turned to leave, with the magazine it
Slipped in my pocket.

Elephants in the Wood by Councillor James Doyle

(Inspired by Honeysuckle Lane)

There are elephants in the wood, you know,
I heard them yesterday.
I think they were playing hide‑and‑seek,
So I didn't get in the way.

They trumpeted up to a hundred,
And ran around to look;
Much safer to be (I thought) up a tree,
With my sandwiches and book.

I awoke from a nod, to a tentative prod,
And much to my surprise,
Looking up at me, from between my feet
Were an elephant's big blue eyes!

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you"
Said the elephant with a grin,
"Have you seen Laverne ‑ she's a pachyderm,
"With the usual wrinkly skin."

I had to confess I hadn't seen
The errant proboscident
But I offered my aid, if a search would be made
(And my dog might follow a scent).

We searched through the wood, from end to end
Up and down and out and round ‑
I nearly got stepped on, once or twice ‑
But the elephant couldn't be found. 

The dog was tired, and so was I,
We'd run out of places to look;
Till we went to the tree where they'd come across me,
And there she was, reading my book!

Laverne invited me back for tea,
And it really was jolly good fun:
There were biscuits and cake, and I ate 'til I ached,
But the elephants took all the buns.

There are elephants in the wood, but please,
If it sounds like they're playing with me;
Climb out of the way till they've finished their game ‑
Being stood on can ruin your tea.

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