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Parkgate

POETRY

A TOUCH OF SPRING

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments1 min read214 views

Driving down Boathouse Lane, Parkgate, at the bend

is the first view of the estuary.

This unseasonal February day, lit

with a spring-like sunshine, the vast reed beds

are golden filled with silver pools and lagoons

high tides have made. On the Welsh shore the narrow,

sea-going channel is pallid – above

Halkyn Mountain is a gentle lilac,

as are the Clwydians beyond, and east

Peckforton and Beeston on the Cheshire Plain.

 

Outside the town the RSPB car park,

on the site of the old sea-water baths,

is overwhelmed with birders – their serious

gear and sharp elbows – here to film or photo

feathered raptors devour water voles

fleeing the rising waters shoreward.

 

Later, putting out the bins in the mild dusk,

all the gardens of our neighbourhood

are filled with the singing of blackbirds.

 

 

 

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POETRY

SAND FLATS AT WEST KIRBY

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read543 views

At low water the sand flats stretch unbroken

down the Dee estuary’s English coast

to the reed beds of Parkgate and Burton Marsh;

stretch beyond the islands in the river’s mouth –

Hilbre, Middle Eye and Little Eye –

towards the wind turbines in Liverpool Bay;

then along the head of the Peninsula,

past Meols, Leasowe, Wallasey and New Brighton,

to join the mudflats of the Mersey.

 

At low water the sand flats are safe to cross

to the islands – and you might feel you could walk

to that wind farm on Burbo Bank, or walk

to Wales and reach Snowdonia’s ranges,

despite the channels you cannot see,

and the waves encroaching which you cannot hear,

let alone see, because of the constant sound

of endless, restless, distant waters.

 

Here are such large skies of shifting clouds,

long veils of rain, unbroken sunlight –

such immense firmaments. This is a place

of horizons and mirage, of disquiet,

and exhilaration, like a lost element,

a lost dimension, as if you might glimpse

heaven or angels, or whatever else

may be at the world’s edge.

 

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

THE OLD SEA BATHS, PARKGATE…

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments2 min read1.1K views

…is now a bosky car park – owned and maintained

by the borough council, and enhanced

by two charities: one for birds, the other

for history and the built environment.

Over the remains of the wall along

what was once the seaward side of the baths

is a belvedere across bird-teeming hectares

of reeds and runnels, and, beyond, the long

low mauve and lilac of Halkyn Mountain.

Though no Ur or Babylon, this small space

and its short history is a metaphor

for humankind’s enterprising and

egregious journey to date through the cosmos.

 

At the head of the Dee estuary were

salt marshes with a navigable channel

through to the international port of Chester.

The marshes were drained, filled and the land

‘reclaimed’ – as if the sea had stolen it –

to build ships, and make chains and anchors.

Silt began to block the channel so the river

was canalised – which has caused the east coast

of the estuary to silt and become

marshland. As the hectares of reeds became

multitudes making the sea a distant,

occasional thing the baths had to close.

 

They were most popular in the ‘Thirties,

despite the Depression and the long grey lines

of unemployed men in flat caps. Bathers

came via the railway – now gone –

or by car. There was parking for a thousand

Rileys, and Rovers, and Singers, the sun

reflecting from their bonnets in fields

next to the baths, and now pastoral again.

And, like any ancient civilisation,

on a ruined wall is a graffito:

in traditionally executed signwriting –

with a ‘Thirties’ three dimensional font,

and gentle shades of blue and of green –

‘The Old Sea Baths’.

 

Note: The post was amended on 6.5.26. While poems are not intended to be documents of record they should not be careless with facts. The original title was ‘The Old Seawater Baths, Parkgate’ and there was no reference to signwriting.

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

THE PARADE, PARKGATE, WIRRAL

David Selzer By David Selzer4 Comments1 min read2.2K views

Because the Dublin packet’s draught was too great

for it to moor, irrespective of tides,

beside the quay, it would anchor in the roads

of the estuary. Passengers and goods

would be ferried to and fro by long boat.

 

Where the ship hoved-to a lagoon has been cut

among the fields of reed beds that thrive

on the rich silt accumulated, over

two centuries, this side of the river.

When sea-going vessels could no longer

sail the narrowing channels, when only

shrimping boats could find open water,

but the sandy beach was not yet overgrown

the place became a seaside resort.

The Customs House on the sea wall was razed.

A donkey stand was built on its foundations.

 

And there we sit today, contemplatively,

enjoying our Caesar Salad wraps,

watching a little egret on the lagoon –

and imagining George Frederick Handel,

for example, embark for Dublin

and the first performance of ‘The Messiah’,

and Dean Jonathan Swift returning home

to compose ‘A Modest Proposal’

concerning the children of the Irish poor.

Down river, too far to identify,

a raptor is circling; beyond, like

nets cast, flocks of waders rise and land.

On the horizon – where the river

and the Irish Sea mingle out of sight –

is the suspicion of white wind turbines.

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

SAND FLATS AT WEST KIRBY

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read2.3K views

At low water the sand flats stretch unbroken

down the Dee estuary’s English coast

to the reed beds of Parkgate and Burton Marsh;

stretch beyond the islands in the river’s mouth –

Hilbre, Middle Eye and Little Eye –

towards the wind turbines in Liverpool Bay;

then along the head of the Peninsula,

past Meols, Leasowe, Wallasey and New Brighton,

to join the mudflats of the Mersey.

 

At low water the sand flats are safe to cross

to the islands – and you might feel you could walk

to that wind farm on Burbo Bank, or walk

to Wales and reach Snowdonia’s ranges,

despite the channels you cannot see,

and the waves encroaching which you cannot hear,

let alone see, because of the constant sound

of endless, restless, distant waters.

 

Here are such large skies of shifting clouds,

long veils of rain, unbroken sunlight –

such immense firmaments. This is a place

of horizons and mirage, of disquiet,

and exhilaration, like a lost element,

a lost dimension, as if you might glimpse

heaven or angels, or whatever else

may be at the world’s edge.

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

ACROSS THE ESTUARY

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.9K views

The beds of varicoloured reeds, fields almost,

stretch north and south along this bank for miles,

and westwards, nearly to Wales, across the wide,

silted river. Unseen marsh creatures scarcely

disturb the grasses. Egrets and herons

fly in and out of hidden lagoons.

Before silt, from here, the Dublin packet sailed –

with G.F. Handel and Jonathan Swift.

On the opposite shore are the ruins

of Flint Castle where Richard was dethroned –

‘…night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.’

Sun catches a window on Halkyn Mountain.

 

This year marks the first centenary

of the Amritsar massacre, the second

of Peterloo – but even now there are

doubters, equivocators, who minimise

the carnage, exculpate the perpetrators.

 

In the small car park behind us a car door

opens briefly – the radio announces,

in a public school accent, that there will be

never ending dystopia ‘until’

and ‘unless’. Today is the first of summer,

hot, windless, with dragonflies and bees

abounding. This remorseless marshland is

unequivocal – earth and vegetation

are ruthless, immaculate remembrancers.

 

 

 

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