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Worcester

THE OLD RAPTURES

‘When on a sudden, “Crickley,” he said. How I started
At that old darling name of home, and turned,
Fell into a torrent of words warm hearted
Till clear above the stars of summer burned
In velvety smooth skies.
We shared memories,
And the old raptures from each other learned.’

CRICKLEY HILL, Ivor Gurney, Lord Derby’s Military Hospital, Warrington, July 1918

 

Vaughan Williams’ ‘Fantasia on a Theme

by Thomas Tallis’ was first performed

in 1910 at the Three Choirs Festival,

held annually in the cathedrals

of the three great cities of the Welsh Marches,

Worcester, Hereford and, that year, Gloucester.

 

The composer himself conducted the piece

for double string orchestra. Applause

in church then was unfashionable

so the last long attenuated chord – that

moves from fortissimo to pianissimo,

from slight discord to silent harmony –

hung untroubled in the Nave’s towering air.

 

In the audience were two close friends, sons

of local tradesmen, musically gifted,

articled pupils of the organist –

who had said of the Fantasia, “a queer,

mad work by an odd fellow from Chelsea.”

 

Ivor Gurney and Herbert Howells both

became composers, and one a poet.

The friends, so rapt by the music, walked

all night through the city’s gas-lit, summer streets –

north past the Cattle Market’s pens and sheds,

west to the Severn, south to the Docks

and the ship canal, east, as the sun rose,

along the London Road – their young voices

inspired, impervious. Herbert will die

revered in a nursing home, mourning his son.

Ivor will die alone in a madhouse.

 

WATCHING THE LAMBS

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read587 views

From the Ackermans’ seat near the lift bridge
on the Llangollen Canal – tree-lined
for the most part but open here – the view
has become a perennial favourite.
We watch cyclists, joggers, walkers pass,
and the narrow boats that have journeyed
from Nantwich, Dudley, Worcester – and we nod and smile.
But best of all in late March/early April
are the lambs on the pasture opposite
that rises, with occasional oaks,
gently to an escarpment that ends
beneath high limestone cliffs that sever the sky.

This part of Wales was once near the South Pole –
and has variously been: deep-sea mud,
crumpled, fractured by the movements of the earth;
a shallow, fertile tropical sea;
a swamp with giant mosses; a vast, hot,
featureless desert inundated by the odd
flash flood; an ice sheet shaping the landscape.
All gone in the shake of a lamb’s tail…

The ewes chop grass as if they were on piece work.
Their offspring thrust at them for milk or stare
at something new or lounge in the sun
or explore the barbed wire edges of our,
oh, so temporary world.