#hartlepool

Don McCullin

The late May sun crowns Hartlepool in gold,

As summer’s splendid sanctuary unfolds.

A gift of Victorian pride and grace,

Time carves its history through this place.

The gates stand wide to the season's peak,

Where the ancient trees and wild birds speak.

The ornate bandstand shines in midday heat,

A silent stage where past and present meet.

Beneath the grand clock tower's steady face,

Shadow forms stretch at an idle pace.

The Jubilee Fountain, cast in racing green,

Spouts fresh, cold water on this scorching scene.

Rows of sweeping flower beds in glory bloom,

And fill the park with heavy, sweet perfume.

Petals of scarlet, gold, and violet gleam,

Woven together like a midsummer dream.

The heavy air is humming and alive,

As bees buzz low and nested insects thrive.

Deep in the woodland walk where shadows hide,

Great iron spiders haunt the canopy's side.

Industrial art woven into the boughs,

Where sunlight breaks and the wild fern bows.

Then out on the terrace where grand elders walked,

The modern crowds stroll where the Victorians talked.

Nearby, the old ship's bell stands proud and still,

A silent guardian on the grassy hill.

It holds a deep, reverberating hum,

Vibrating softly like a muffled drum.

A bronze reminder of the ocean's roar,

Anchored in lawns far away from the shore.

Upon the smooth and neatly leveled green,

Thunk-clack—the modern bowls collide unseen,

While drifting through this warm, midsummer dream,

The phantom golfers of a vanished scene

Line up their putts, as if it's 'Twenty-Two,

Then fade like mist beneath the sunlit blue.

And on the stone terrace, standing in the sun,

The soldier watches by the Silent Gun.

The stone-built lodge stands watch beside the gate,

Footsteps crunch-scuff where generations wait.

The lake goes splash as diving ducklings play,

While miniature yachts glide and sail away.

Hobbyists navigate the ripples with pride,

As graced swans drift on the shimmering tide.

The water lilies open to the glare,

While heavy scent of roses fills the air.

'The Place in the Park' clinks with ceramic sound,

As cooling treats and laughter pass around.

A rustle-sigh sweeps through the canopy,

A warm wind waking every ancient tree.

This living jewel from a bygone age,

Writes summer’s music on an historic page.

And we, the fleeting guests of late May's heat,

Walk paths where youth and fading memory meet;

For seasons turn, and blooms must surely fall,

Yet this green haven outlives us all.

The clock ticks on, the bronze remains sublime,

A perfect afternoon caught fast in time.

The sun may sink and fold the park away,

But tomorrow wakes to breathe another day;

A timeless circle, beautifully cast,

Where Hartlepool’s future kisses its past.

Vulpes??? What you doin' in Hartlepool! 😨

Winston Churchill posant avec un pistolet-mitrailleur Thompson lors d'une inspection des défenses côtières à Hartlepool – 31 juillet 1940

Photographe : Major W. G. Horton - War Office official photographer

John Bulmer