The Island

Not an island filled with holes,
But named by gospels inked in gold.
Lindisfarne was once called holy,
By the monks that lived within it’s priory,
Their home cut off by raging seas,
But a causeway comes at half past three.
So when the English walked the pass,
To attend the Priory’s Sunday mass,
As they crossed to the island judged,
For doing sins and doing good,
The foul are taken, engulfed by waves,
And the saints make passage to go and pray.
So if you cross with a conscience ill,
The isle may take you at it’s will.

This is my I poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within. You may want to read a couple other poems in my challenge to get the gist.

Well this ones about ‘Holy Island’ or lindisfarne, an island off the coast of Northumberland that can be accessed by a road at certain times of the day. It’s home to books called the gospels and I decided to turn it into a murdering island.

I know I’ve fell behind, but I promise to catch up

The Haggis

Seen on dreary foggy days,
Across the glens the haggis play.
On Tuesday hunts with guns and hound,
They follow tracks left in the ground,
For 3 legged haggis raid farm and field,
Stealing sheep and oatmeal. These pests found in burrows and digs,
Look a little like baby pigs!
I assure you they aren’t half as sweet,
But in Scotland they are great to eat!

Desperately trying to get caught up, this poem comes from The Untold Stories of Scotland.

I know today is meant for J, but I fell behind due to juggling hospital visits and I’m due to start a new job on Monday. Very up and down time so a little cheating on the challenge is necessary.

My best friend once told me haggis were three legged creatures. I am incredibly gullible but I am not that bad, yet I still wrote this rhyme.

This is my H poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

The Grock

The Grock is not said but sung,
For the ‘R’ must roll right off the tongue,
There have been many stories said,
That he’ll grind your bones for his bread.
That he steals the sleeping out their room,
And takes them to awaiting doom. For Grock came from way up high,
When the beanstalk fell from the sky.
But be glad that there is only one,
For half the North would be gone!

Ok so I’m cheating a little to get caught up. But really this is where the rest of my a to z has come from. On a trip to Glasgow I was alone in a hotel room for a night and my mind wandered. The Untold Stories of Scotland is the result of such wandering.

Now I know alot of my followers have come across this poem, and the one I have coming up for H, but one of the great things about doing this challenge has been the amount of new visitors. And I’d love to share these little Scot inspired verses with them too.

This is my G poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

The Foreign

Across our land from East to west,
We built a great walled defense,
From the foreign who live beyond divide,
Of whom we do not speak their kind.
With thirst of blood and human flesh,
We stay behind our safety fence.
But when we cross, to our back it looms,
The wall becomes our grave and tomb.

This is my F poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within. You may want to read a couple other poems in my challenge to get the gist.

This one comes from the story of Hadrian’s wall, and the fear of those that lurked beyond it. It’s hugely inspired by The wall in the game of thrones series and books, but it’s our wall and we had one first!!!

Lady Etal

In the ancient towns of Ford and Etal,
A fable whispered throughout the people,
Of lovers on 2 sides of war,
But brought together by love they bore,
Her father, sir and Etal’s Lord,
Sent his daughter to castle ford,
And said the man she wished to wed,
Was enemy and he’d take his head,
But to her father, she begged and plead’
Till he finally then agreed,
Bring him here at the hour of four,
And bring him to the castle door,
But when they met and kissed her cheek,
The gates closed and arrows unsheathed,
Where they stood in lovers arms,
And murdered by her fathers armed.
Whose ghost are seen in their embrace,
Trapped between the murder gates.

This is my E poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.

During a school trip to Ford and Etal, many many moons ago. I was told this story when visiting one of Northumberland’s many castles. The trouble is I don’t remember which castle it was. But basically we were told of a woman who fell for her father’s enemy, due to the shame she caused the family she, and lover were murdered trapped between the portcullises. Now whether it is true, I’m unsure but it makes a cracking story!

My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.

The Devil’s Table

Where the devil comes to make his feast,
On cliffs that cut off to east,
His table stone and half a ruin,
In a shadow of a church on dune.
400 years or more have past,
He comes just once to break his fast,
To a spread of wine, prunes and figs,
And to his fiddle; a merry jig,
By the light of moon and a sky quite teal,
He takes his leave and ends his meal,
With nothing left but a stain of wine,
On the table where the devil dines.

This is my D poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.

When I was younger, there was a story of a stone table at Church point in Newbiggin, years of rumors labelled this as ‘The Devil’s Table, where if you went, ouji board in hand, you could make contact with the devil himself. Age made us wiser and we came to realise the table was in fact a memorial with weathered writing. However this little story has always stuck in my mind, and from it has sprouted this little rhyming tale.

My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.

The Crags

A Crag a name that’s often given,
To some may know as witchcraft women,
Who live amount the Cheviot hills,
Brewing teas and making spells,
The oldest crag of ninety nine,
With scratty hair and eyes blue blind,
She has for ailments a drinking potion,
For fertile wombs and bones t’ broken,
For seeing things she has a gift,
As the future she can oft predict,
In times of trouble and times of plight,
And when the moon is mostly bright,
They take their baskets and walk the wood,
Whispering chants and casting good.

This is my C poem for the A to Z challenge.
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within.

The Crags of Northumberland are sort of cliffs, up near Alnwick. But I thought they sound more like witches of the woods.

My poems kind of lead onto one another so I do suggest you read the poem before it to get the gist.