Six Poems
by Rachel Burrows
The Solar Farm Survey
They are digging for bones and remnants on the hill,
but you can’t lift the ashes of a village.
The stories and the lives will slip
though the teeth of the beast
that watches from the brow,
where ancient feet walked.
Alert.
White horses panic on the slopes in the distance,
the hillfort is tense, it can see what’s afoot.
The vibration of the future is felt by the hare,
and skylarks raise the alarm.
They are digging for bones and remnants on the hill,
but you can’t lift the joy of a village.
The freedom to breathe will slip
through the teeth of the beast
that watches from the brow,
where ancient feet walked.
Alert
The plain in the distance echoes the bombshell,
the Saxon-site church hugs its bones tight.
The vibration of the future is felt by the buzzard
and the skylarks raise the alarm.
They won’t find a reason in the teeth of the beast,
they won’t find a reason.
Just greenwash
and pound-signs
and greenwash.
And pound-signs,
and pounds
and pounds
and pounds.
They won’t find reason
in the pocket
of the beast.
Untitled
bankfuls of snowdrops
I will raise you a primrose -
springtime gambolling
6am Sunblessed
Oh God – look at the bloody size of me,
I’m a bloater, a ball -
no cheekbones
no hips
a tart in red -
and pink! The clash!
At my age!
Oh to wear black and hide the bulge!
And my highlights are garish, ombres unsubtle – so in-your-face, so last-year.
The state of me! Take that lake away!
One day I just want to arrive – slip into the day,
black-slink in, unnoticed.
Yeh - raise your bloody trumpets you orange-beaked fools – it’s me again!
She watches in her dressing gown,
wet-arsed against the bin
of the village shop wall.
The blackbirds are louder
than the chaos she’s escaping.
She clutches the sliced loaf
to her chest.
Lunches can wait.
Tantrums can wait.
The world can wait.
The day is breaking.
It is hers
and she is perfect.
Halotherapy
Today I walked down the cliff to the beach.
The cows watched on,
lying
about the rain.
Ruminating Ulurus.
Chalk-flagged by bugloss, the sea-drift bobbed,
and the gorse flames sang -
a crescendo of youth and heady vanilla -
suddenly silenced
by a twist
in the path.
The salt-breath wind
grabbed me
and gull-danced me
down
to pebbles rolling,
waves crashing,
and coarse-sands shifting.
The sea roared its welcome
and I roared back.
Blissfully aware
and insignificant.
Cristina’s in the Class Below
It’s 6am, Welcome to The Today Programme.
Here is the news.
It’s black out there.
There’s no-one about.
Dog-walkers are waiting for cracks in the darkness.
At the junction by school,
a red light fades with the hairpin bend.
Tick tut, tick tut
nothing coming
except,
head down, determined,
a shadowy figure turns into the lane
and passes the car.
I know the coat.
I see her breath.
I’ve seen the notes.
I know where she’s been…
It’s a four mile walk from Headley’s
on unlit roads,
no place for pedestrians,
no safe crossings,
…filling doughnuts
for Waitrose.
Packing gateaux, brioche, focaccia and blinis,
sourdough, croissants and rye…
while Cristina sleeps.
She’ll wake her soon,
in time for school
and bring her to the gate
immaculate
and threadbare,
keen to learn,
eager to prove.
And she’ll rest
when the world
has risen.
Village Life
Because you are part of this community,
you must not be wild
and scream on this two-way street
of give and take -
or ride your bikes on the pavement,
and meet at the bus stop -
because you are part of a respectable community…
that has taken your place to be wild and free
and your safe places to move,
your access to freedom
to the next green space,
your places to join
and stay dry when it rains,
to form bonds
to take risks
safely.
You are part of a
who expect you to be more
like them
with their jobs and their cars, their gardens and their meetings
in the daytime
to stop the rot in the community
that you can’t attend
because you are working hard to get out of this place
and aim for something better.
But to let off steam, you will carry on screaming, riding on pavements and meeting
at junctions and dead-ends,
and be a disappointment
to this community of place
not interest or action.
You are part of a community of circumstance.
And they think it won’t be your last.
Just because you scream and ride your bike on the pavement.
BIO: Rachel’s writing features in Northern Gravy, Motherhood Uncensored, Tiny Wren, Write Out Loud’s Echoes, The Dawntreader, The Candyman’s Trumpet, Underbelly Press, Dust, and anthologies from The Broken Spine and Hedgehog Presses. She has been nominated for The Pushcart and Best Small Fictions Prize. She also writes for children and was shortlisted in The Cheshire Novel Prize Kids 2025 and Write Mentor’s Picturebook Prize 2023. She has read her work on BBC Radio and BookJiveLive. X- @RobinRB17 BlueSky- @rburrows.bsky.social Instagram- @rlburrows23