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We are an association devoted to the study of Lancashire literature, history, traditions and dialect.

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Our esteemed Competitions Secretary Olive Riley has very bravely agreed to start the ball rolling. Let's hope many of you follow suit. Olive's poem is printed below. As your submissions start to come in we will create a separate page for each writer. For the time being, please read Olive's poem about our association. Olive's poem can now be viewed on her own page by scrolling to the bottom of the page and clicking on her link below. There you will also be able to view the work of our Treasurer, Tom Ungless. Why not submit two or more of your own pieces and we will design a page for you. New member, Chrissie Keelan has become the latest one to submit two items and you can get to her page either here or via the link at the bottom. Gill McDonald-Constable has now joined the ranks of members who are entitled to their own page and you can click on her here on at the bottom of the page.

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Why not visit our new children's page. It is open for work by children up to the age of sixteen who are closely related to members. All work submitted here will only bear the first name and age of the child in the interest of the child's internet safety. This can be accessed by the link at the top of the page.



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This is a poem by one of our members, Carl Calvert who is currently teaching in France

Olive tree, oh olive tree

what sights and sounds abound

within that gnarled misshapen trunk;

captured within each greying fold

and secreted therein and never told.

As if in parody of your great age

New seasons leaves unfurl from buds

Precursors of a bitter fruit.

  © Carl Calvert 2013

Poem written whilst on holiday in Greece in May.

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Here's a lovely poem from another member who joined recently: Edith Ibbotson.

The Ballad of Deane Mill  

I quietly stood on the old stone bridge.

On a beautiful summer’s day.

The air was full of the scent of flowers

And Deane brook babbled away.


Something of a bygone age

There seemed to linger still.

Casting my own thoughts back in time,

To the days of the old Deane Mill.


I heard the clanging of the bell.

It rang across the Moors

Tumbling men and women out

From all the cottage doors.


Children lying in their beds,

Would hear the rising tide

Of clattering clogs, like some great wave

Of sound that rose and died.


Down the muddy tacks they came

Along the cobbled lane.

Under the arch of the great Deane Mill

In a seemingly endless train.


The open arms of the iron gates

Stood wide to let them in,

For they were the cogs of the human wheel,

That would start the mill to spin.


How strange to think the fate

Of all those working folk,

Hung by a single cotton thread

That the hand of fortune broke.


Edith Ibbotson ©





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