Mexborough Photography Project
Through the Lens: Words and Images from Mexborough
In 2024, we worked with members of the local community to create a photography project in Mexborough. We wanted to capture Mexborough as it was at the time, and create a lasting archival record of the town. Equipped with everything from smartphones to disposable cameras, participants captured the town’s streets, school fields, waterways, green spaces, shops, buildings, gardens, tunnels, and wildlife. Several hundred photos were taken, and were then curated into an exhibition by a small group of hardworking volunteers. The exhibition is available to view in the foyer of Mexborough Library
We wanted the photos to be used beyond just display, so we partnered with Read to Write, a not-for-profit grassroots poetry group run by Ian Parks based in Mexborough and Balby Libraries. The group focuses on the reading of poetry, as well as writing and performing their own work in a friendly, supportive environment. The Read to Write Mexborough group is run by John Beal, in close association with the Balby group.
The poems in this collection are all based on one or more of the photographs that were taken in 2024. This is known as ‘ekphrastic poetry’ – a type of poetry that responds to another piece of art. We hope you enjoy reading them!
With thanks to everybody who participated in this project, especially Ian and the Read to Write poets, Paul, Julie and Dawn who created the exhibition, and our community photographers.
New Boots
1960s – the highlight of her years,
Madame Florence arranged fashion shows,
At the Empress Buildings,
Where you could see Freddie and the Dreamers,
Play snooker and have a few beers.
For decades her shop was the Bs and Es,
Bringing modern styles to Mexborough town,
Her unique high class displays,
Would be where you would find that designer gown.
I went there for my wedding trousseau,
Beautiful satin and luxurious silks,
Like a scene from ‘Are You Being Served?’.
Kensington High Street, Biba and all that ilk.
All gone, but next door is still Pettits shoe shop,
Encasing well turned ankles of high class,
My little son’s feet were carefully measured,
After choosing his favourite,
With face squashed against the glass.
I shopped there yesterday,
The attentive assistant,
Found me elegant boots to match my fat feet!
And upstairs in the coffee lounge,
I sat smugly by the window,
Satisfied with my little treat.
I hope it doesn’t change too much,
That those pockets of history still survive,
Ed Miliband has got 12.5 million in his swag bag,
Let’s see him inject the town alive!
Chris Aram
Misplaced Station
An ancient fault line
crossed and re-crossed
fingers traced upon a map
road bridged canal – old river
channelled through graves
new industry and past myth
Old Denaby’s peace fractured
broken by station
whistled down track on high
decision unheeding boundaries
wrong side of old river
for Mexborough town stop
John Beal
Made in Mexborough
A hidden river runs through their earth words,
a horse whinnying, snorting visions bolt
after them, it starts more or less solid word
chemicals – bubbling, fuming, multi-col
oured, becoming clearer on the page, pits
and potteries subside into the flow,
bulls and crows hulk and gnaw as river shifts
in their veins that bend to write what they know.
Word clay spins on the goddess watered wheel
of their insights as their hands shape the day.
Hard, dull, high quality, steams words
between softer, brighter ones work their way.
Massingham, Hughes, Eley, Beal and Parks craft
Don and Dearned liquid turned, mined, image graft.
Paul Brookes
Swan
Serene
White
Admirable
Noble
As the swan glides along the Mexborough canal
I stop to stare at its beauty
A perfect form in white plumage
Unknowing of my admiration
A peaceful image in a turbulent world.
Mary Camm
Belle Vue Road
She was nine and a half-month pregnant
and had had enough of carrying a tenant.
I suggested we went for a bumpy ride
as all other wives tales had been tried.
Along Gardens then up Dolcliffe Road
turned and paused atop Bellevue and slowed.
Looking down the uneven cobbled street
aware of the child we wanted to meet.
Hand break off and down the hill we went
hurling along at full speed we were sent.
Bobbledy, boddledy, bumpety bump
holding on tight to get rid of this lump.
We got back to the bottom and back to the top.
Then back around again floppily flop.
Frank Colley
Belle Vue Road
This cobbled street where echoes linger
in every uneven stone,
whispers of footsteps past –
miners trudging home, pockets heavy
with dust, children weave between shadows,
laughter skipping like pebbles tossed on the Don.
Each stone a memory,
worn smooth by time and tread,
cradling rainwater like dimples,
reflecting murky clouds drifting like forgotten thoughts.
The lamplight spills like amber syrup,
softening edges, pooling in cracks,
casting long silhouettes of quiet lives,
the silent poetry of ordinary days.
Here, the air carries the scent of history
etched – coal-smoke deep – tangled with the iron sweet drift
of late summer blossoms from adjacent gardens.
The street speaks – its voice – the rhythm of wheels and soles,
the heartbeat of a town, etched
into each stubborn, enduring stone.
John Curry
Kingfisher
Wait a while, with whispered breath,
silent, still, by the Don the willow
stoops, its lithe and slender tendrils
trace the glass of the rivers mirrored skin.
There, did you see it? just there?
a flicker, a dart, gone.
The kingfisher a living gem
bright against the hush of marsh marigold and moss
Your foot disturbs an alder’s limb
that lay across our path, gone again,
swift as thought, the rivers silent hunter, vanished
the sticklebacks, safe for now, in the slowly flowing
cool waters.
John Curry
SNAP! – What a Picture
Images of a grey town suspended in time
memories of loving where we live.
Rising from the ashes, a second coming
for future generations to give.
A celebration of architecture
look above your heads
Belle Vue cobbles glisten with love and toil
beneath the feet of heroes rising from the soil.
In fat in lean a generation of shopkeepers
nail bars, tattooists, vape shops no tobacconists.
Cafes flaunt their cakes and cappuccino,
while poppies remind of the wasted blood of war.
Market stalls, open spaces
sole traders, woodpiles, green places.
No more banks on Bank Street.
Is this the price of progress – can’t be Reyt!
From Garden Centre to garden sheds
the gentrification of the Co-Op bakery.
Watering holes, Red Lion, Bulls Head – ‘Spoons,
some half-full others – only fakery.
Betwixt Hades and Hell our garden of Eden
where geese and sheep photo-bomb this landscape.
River, canal, railway navigate this bruised town
passing through slowly, softening her hardened frown.
Paul Dyson
The Empress
I remember you on the cusp
of fading grandeur. Curtseys and cute
smiles, an audience in your ballroom.
Young ladies hoist their Crimplene hems
shoulder height. Arms aloft
holding invisible partners.
Feet first position for a Boston Two-Step
on the sprung dance floor.
Chintz curtains in the Ladies Powder Room.
Ladies powdering their noses,
slapping on Pan-Stik, red lippy
and blushing cheeks rosy.
Dance classes on Saturday
Mr Tony taps time with his cane
One, two, cha-cha-cha
Three, four, cha-cha-cha.
Twenty pairs of silver dance shoes
bought from Pettits
tap out of time.
Cha-cha to the left
Cha-cha to the right.
Miss Viv holds her head high
in these Come Dancing
Constance Grant days.
Miss Karen and Miss Michelle
twirling and waltzing the little girls
towards Bronze, Silver, Gold medals.
It’s Showtime
and there’s the ten-year-old
who skipped lessons
being pulled through Zorba’s Dance
like the shirring elastic
in her gypsy top.
Underneath the spreading chestnut tree
the Pearly Kings and Queens
parade and party.
After lessons, it’s frothy coffee
milkshakes or a cup of char-char-char
in the American Diner style café.
The chrome steamer hissing
and the milk bubbling.
Then they line up for their carriage –
the Yorkshire Traction 21A!
Tracey Dawson
The Goose
The goose speaks out –
its angry honk carries
across cemeteries, old churches,
terraced houses
and boarded up pubs and shops.
It echoes in the yards
and back-alleys,
disperses across the fields
and reflects off the wide river
that takes it to the sea.
It barks its distress;
it has seen, in flight, the loss
and grief, the desperation,
the barbed-wire hate and lies.
But nobody listens
or tries to understand. Its cry
becomes hoarse. It fades
and vanishes.
Tim Fellows
The Mute Swan
A simple image, solitary swan,
his head half-turned from our intrusive stare.
What do we crave from this Mexborough son?
Disguised god, creamy bull, grey fog or fair
shower of gold? How about a dragon?
There are so many. Count them.
The one’s the cob, I heard my father say,
the blackberry on his head above the bill
much bigger than the pen’s. The cygnets stay
wrapped in feathers along her back until
the water’s safe for them to swim away.
There are so many. Count them.
Eleven swans by day, princes by night,
where your sister knits midnight-nettle shifts
to save you all. The king, who would set light
the raw, cruel fire to burn her for a witch
marries her now, but others’ flames blaze bright.
There are so many. Count them.
To hundred, more, on Corrib’s ample swell,
South Galway river washes free mute souls
unowned by liveries, and not in thrall
to Crown, nor killed to fill a Fellow’s bowl
at St. John’s Cambridge. Free to cast their spells.
There are so many. Count them.
The mute swan chooses silence when it might
snort and honk among the clamorous throng.
It knows to beat and lift and gain the height
to fill the void in this world with the strong,
hypnotic throb of wings and wind in flight.
For nightingales can sing a thousand songs.
The swan in life, in dying has just one.
S.J. Francis-Burnett
The Canal
Built for the age of industry
created and crafted for trade
barges carrying heavy cargo
on man made waterways
the ever moving water
flows so quietly on its course
a major lifeblood of transport
this artery, a main resource
all is history now, work has gone
calm and tranquil you flow
no more the golden age of trade
now just a peaceful place to go
where nature thrives in abundance
and the world seems a different place
where boats are mainly for pleasure
she offers not toil, but leisure.
Sharon Granville
Mexborough by Night
In the shadows
There is more to see
The words poets use
Come from these streets
They are as real as the night
Slipping into your thoughts
Turning your dreams
Back to front, round and around
Here in the shadow
We look for answers
The real folk of the town
Look beyond the shadows
Into the hearts and minds
Listen, listen for life’s secret song
You will only hear this if you are true
Step away from all distractions
Leave behind your preconceived-
Ideas of who we are
And what it is that makes us
Then you will be amazed
The places they meet
The public houses, cafés and libraries
Exchanging thoughts and ideas
Reading out loud to their kif and kin
In the library
They put the books back on the shelf
Waiting for you, “Good Reader”
To discover new ways
Know it is down to you
Go, write down your words
Produce that poem
That will inspire us all
Tony Hitchcock
Still Standing
I remember when
The whole building was covered in flour.
Now every window broken, dusty, and dour.
Aside the canal, built for purpose.
Corn arrived by barge, in sacks,
Hauled up by block and tackle.
Ground into flour, packed into strong paper bags,
Lowered into another boat, towed by a horse.
One way to Sheffield, t’other to Donny, of course.
It has stood tall, re-purposed, re-opened,
Coltran Engineering,
Extruding wire, heat, dust, and hammering.
But the noise, like the firm, is dead.
Years of neglect, invasion by birds and bats,
Damp, buddleia, graffiti, foxes and rats.
A new lease of life, is on the ledge,
Plans drawn and submitted, for sixty flats.
Apartments, 200 grand door mats.
Geoff Lowery
I’m more than a Lollipop Man
I’m a School Crossing Patrol Officer
I’m a British Institution
Like John, Paul, George and Ringo
A part of the culture
In my high visibility overcoat
I’m as British as a Beefeater
The Saint Christopher of crossing the road
Like James Bond
I’m an agent of the King’s Government
The kiddies are safe on my patch
Your Majesty
Mike O’Brien
The Tunnel
The tunnel has no end.
It runs under the town.
The man who tried to fathom it
Was never seen again
Although his cries are often heard
When rain comes siling down.
Children at the entrance
Stand and whisper, run away.
The tunnel has no purpose
And we can only guess
Why they raised up this vault of stone
To dreams of its silence in the dark.
Sometimes a spider weaves a web across;
Sometimes a rain-drop gathers –
And no-one ever sees the promised light
Where something scurries quick on the damp floor.
The tunnel has always been there.
It keeps its secret hid.
It has no clear beginning
And the tunnel has no end.
Ian Parks
Towpath
Here is where he met him.
A stone-cold place in England,
This northern town,
where the canal towpath widens.
Swans drift by
under bridges long cast.
Here is where he left him.
Fifty-seven years together.
Passed in a moment.
He is relieved that train thing
Will no longer take away memories
that rerun, redondantly, as he walks.
Gary Wells
The Wheelbarrow
A rusty wheelbarrow at rest
Basking in the afternoon sun
As another evening descends
Its day done, a duty fulfilled
A memory then springs to mind
A thought of many years ago
When such an object was misused
An unfortunate accident
I drove it through a pane of glass
Which was inexplicably propped
Against the wall of a new build
Invisible to sleepy eyes
An unexpected shattering
Stirred the late afternoon stillness
The sudden sound of running feet
And the inevitable cry
I was kicked out of my first job
With no fanfare, leaving behind
A rusty wheelbarrow at rest
Basking in the afternoon sun
Allan Wilkinson
Mexvictoriana
High iron railings bar entry
to come sort of mechanical contraption,
But what did it do?
I’d ask Wallace and Gromit if I were you.
Looks like the water pump that Frankenstein built.
Look closely,
bits of metal beer kegs are wedged
like off-duty Daleks, black plastic bins,
stacked in such a way
to make it look like
industrial collage.
I don’t think they meant it,
otherwise it’s Tracey Emin’s first job,
‘All the blokes who drank in the Imp I haven’t slept with’.
There must be one fellow whose name’s not down here…
Lucky Alf.
Time to google who ‘C’ was,
some industrialist, rich enough
to afford to have his initial embossed
on an iron gate. No wait,
there are two ‘C’s –
‘CC’ stands for Cubic Capacity.
Cornwallis Carbuncle, that’s solved it,
inventor of bad skin in 1892.
The barbed wire isn’t to stop folk breaking in,
it’s to stop them breaking out –
in boils, spots, and blemishes
caused by such horrors and sunbathing and perspiring.
Beauty was a serious business, even then. Isn’t rubbish beautiful?
Ask Gerald Ratner.
I think this splendid monstrosity
qualifies as Mexvictoriana;
new town embraces old theme;
ugly gets to be beautiful.
What the place needs is a good fettle.
John Wolfe