A collection of poetry from the Dales
What if the hills, rivers and ancient stones hold memories older than mankind itself? The Music Beneath the Hill is a journey into a forgotten world of folklore, restless spirits and buried histories, where the echoes of vanished armies linger beneath the earth and nature remembers what humanity has long forgotten. A reflection on time, myth and the mysterious connection between the living world and the ancient past.
What if the universe has no grand plan for us, and life is simply ours to experience? The Ordinary Can Shine is a reflection on finding meaning without needing a greater purpose. Through the stars above, the changing seasons and the small joys we often overlook, it explores the beauty of an ordinary life and the freedom to simply exist, appreciate the moment and love while we can.
What’s the best way to meet new people while traveling? For someone coming from Yorkshire, the answer is easy: we just talk to everyone. We don’t need an organised excursion or a team-building exercise. Put… More
By morning
the city had grown teeth.
They pushed through the pavements
in long white rows,
splitting the roads apart.
People stepped carefully between them
on their way to work,
as though they had always been there.
The sky hung low and swollen,
the colour of old bruises.
Something moved inside the clouds.
Nobody looked up.
At the corner of Mercy Street
a woman stood perfectly still
beneath a flickering sign.
She had been standing there
for eleven years.
Every morning
she turned her head
a fraction further
towards the river.
People passed her
without speaking.
Sometimes they touched her shoulder
for luck.
Sometimes they left flowers
at her feet.
Once,
a man brought his children
to watch her turn.
They applauded
when she moved.
At the bus stop
sixteen people stood
in perfect silence,
all facing the same direction.
None of them were waiting
for a bus.
Every few minutes
one would quietly leave the queue,
walk into the road,
and lie face-down
on the asphalt.
The others never reacted.
They simply closed the gap.
The shop windows were breathing.
Slowly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Behind the glass,
mannequins had begun to grow hair.
Some had teeth.
One had started whispering
the names of people
who had not yet disappeared.
People came every morning
to hear whether their own name
had been spoken.
Those whose names appeared
always smiled.
They were considered lucky.
Down in the market
they sold meat without animals.
It came wrapped in newspaper,
warm to the touch.
If you held it long enough,
you could feel it breathing.
Nobody complained.
Families gathered
around dinner tables
and ate in silence,
carefully avoiding
one particular chair.
That chair was always occupied
by someone who wasn’t there.
Children were taught
not to look directly at it.
They learned quickly.
At midnight
the apartment blocks
began to knock.
Not doors.
Walls.
Thousands of soft knocks
from thousands of rooms.
The residents had developed
a polite little custom.
Whenever the knocking began,
everyone stood beside their beds
and knocked back.
Three times.
Never four.
Nobody remembered
who had taught them.
The elevators still worked.
That was the worst part.
They descended
below the foundations,
past the forgotten floors,
past the pipes
and buried stations,
down to somewhere
the architects
had never drawn.
People went there willingly.
They queued outside the doors
every Thursday morning.
Some carried flowers.
Some carried photographs.
Some carried sleeping children.
Nobody ever came back up.
But every Friday
the queue was longer.
By dawn
the streets were crowded again.
People went to work.
Buses arrived.
Children carried lunchboxes.
The clocks continued
their obedient little circles.
Only the birds
had stopped singing.
They sat along
the telephone wires
with their heads turned backwards,
watching us.
And beneath the city,
beneath the concrete,
beneath the graves,
something enormous
was learning
how to breathe.
Slowly.
Patiently.
The shop windows breathed with it.
In.
Out.
The walls waited.
The woman on Mercy Street
turned her head
another fraction
towards the river.
And all across the city
people began opening
their windows.
Not because they heard it.
Because they remembered.
Then, somewhere
deep beneath the streets,
the breathing stopped.
Every light went out.
Every conversation ended.
Every mother covered
her child’s mouth.
And the whole city
held its breath.
Because somewhere
beneath us,
something was listening
for anyone
who didn’t.
Stave Halstead.
If aliens arrived tomorrow, what’s the first thing you’d ask them?
Where have you been ?
You’ve been gone ages.
What’s the most underrated life skill?
Being a good listener
What’s the best way to explore a new city?
The best way to explore a new city is on foot.
At least, that’s what the travel experts tell you.
They never mention the swollen feet, the aching legs, the mysterious pain in your back or the fact that by three o’clock you’re looking for a bench with the desperation of a shipwrecked sailor.
I like to start with a map and an ambitious plan. By lunchtime I’ve abandoned half the plan, by mid-afternoon I’ve forgotten where I am, and by early evening I’m sitting outside a café wondering how far the hotel is.
There’s never enough time, of course. You spend the first day trying to find everything you’ve read about, the second day revisiting things you accidentally walked past, and by the third day you’ve developed a close personal relationship with the nearest taxi driver.
But perhaps that’s the best way to explore a city.
Get slightly lost. Wander down streets you didn’t intend to visit. Find a little café, watch the locals, eat something you can’t pronounce and pretend you know exactly where you’re going.
Just remember to wear comfortable shoes.
And ignore anyone who tells you that exploring a city is exhausting.
They’re obviously not doing it properly.
What’s a moment in your life that made you feel truly alive?
It was probably the day my father died.
Until then, I suppose I had felt almost immortal. Death was something that happened to other people, somewhere in the distance, not something that had any real connection to me.
Then my father died, and suddenly the illusion disappeared.
It was a strange and almost bizarre realisation: if he could die, then so could I.
And in that moment, for the first time, I really understood that my life was finite. Somehow, facing death made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before.
The genie grants you a wish. What is it?
Just one.
And strangely, the older I get, the harder that question becomes.
When I was younger, the answer would have been immediate: money, success, prosperity — preferably all three, and preferably by lunchtime.
Then life changes, and so does the wish.
At one point I’d have wished for prosperity. Later, I’d have wished for success in business. Then the wish would have changed to seeing my children do well, and now I’d probably wish for their happiness and success more than my own.
These days, good health would probably be near the top of the list. Not immortality — I’ve seen enough of myself in the mirror to know that would be pushing the genie’s generosity.
And perhaps a little more time. Time to enjoy the people I love, travel, laugh, write a few things that someone actually reads, and enjoy whatever comes next.
So, genie, if you’re listening, I’ll leave the exact wording to you.
But if there’s a small cash bonus attached, I certainly wouldn’t complain.
After all, I’ve still got a few wishes left in me.
Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?
I think the relationship that has taught me the most about myself is probably the one I have with my wife. Not because it has always been easy, but because after so many years together, you can’t really hide from yourself.
She has seen me when I’m confident and when I’m not, when I’m full of ideas and when I’ve had enough of everything. She has watched me change, make mistakes, change again and occasionally stubbornly insist that I was right when I clearly wasn’t.
Growing older together has taught me that a relationship isn’t about finding someone who thinks exactly like you. It’s about finding someone who knows you well enough to challenge you, laugh at you, support you and still be there afterwards.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that I am still capable of changing. I used to think that by my age you were pretty much set in your ways. I don’t believe that anymore.
Sometimes the person who knows you best is also the person who shows you that you don’t know yourself quite as well as you thought.
Even after 44 years.
If you could start a new business right now, what would it be?
If I could start a new business right now, I think I’d open a second-hand vinyl record shop.
At my age, and with far fewer commitments than I had when I was younger, I could afford to be a little less sensible. I wouldn’t be looking to build the next Amazon or create a business empire. I’d just like somewhere I could spend my days surrounded by something I actually enjoy.
I’ve always envied people who managed to turn their hobbies into a living. It seems to me they’ve somehow discovered one of life’s little loopholes — find something you love doing, then persuade other people to pay you for it.
I’d have shelves full of old vinyl, probably far too many Beatles albums, and a record player permanently spinning in the corner. I’d spend my mornings searching for bargains, afternoons chatting to customers and most of my spare time convincing myself that buying another record was actually research.
There would probably be a little café in the corner too. Somewhere to sit, drink coffee and discuss whether the original pressing is genuinely better or whether we’re all just pretending because it costs £40 more.
And if business was slow?
I’d simply put another record on.
At this stage of my life, that sounds less like work and more like a rather good way of spending my time.
Although knowing me, I’d probably end up spending more money in the shop than I made.
Yer granda was a riveter
when the river ran with steel,
when shipyards lined the water
and the hammering never stilled.
He’d leave before the daylight,
coat pulled tight against the cold,
with coal smoke above the rooftops
and the Tyne running dark and old.
He was a hard man.
A proud man.
A man of few words,
but he’d tell you what he thought,
and you’d best be listening.
Down towards the yard he’d wander,
past the houses, past the rain,
to where the cranes stood like great giants
over Tyneside again.
And there he’d take his place among them,
beneath the towering frame,
with sparks falling like summer stars
and the rivet gun’s refrain.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
All morning long —
a sound that shook the yard below,
while plate by plate and rivet by rivet
another great ship began to grow.
Ships that would sail to distant places,
to harbours he’d never know,
past foreign ports and open waters,
wherever they had to go.
They’d carry men around the world,
through storms and foreign rain,
while granda never travelled far
from the banks of the Tyne again.
And maybe that’s the part I love —
the thought of it today:
a man who built the world for others
but never went away.
He knew the river.
Knew the yard.
Knew every street and stone.
His whole world was a few miles wide,
but he never felt alone.
He’d come home tired in the evening,
with the day’s work on his hands,
sit down, have his tea,
and never speak of distant lands.
For what did he need with foreign shores,
or cities he had never known?
The Tyne was in his blood and bones —
Tyneside was his home.
And now the yards have quietened,
and the great ships are gone,
the cranes no longer fill the sky
like they did when he was young.
But sometimes, when the light falls low
and turns the river gold,
I think I hear that rivet gun
come ringing through the cold.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
And for a moment he is there,
coat buttoned to his chin,
walking home towards the lights
with another day behind him.
Yer granda was a riveter.
Hard man.
Proud man.
He built ships that crossed the whole wide world
from the banks he called his own.
And though the yards have fallen still,
and the years have carried him on,
there’s something of him in that river
that says he isn’t wholly gone.
In every ship he helped to build,
in every story handed down,
a little of the world he made
still lives here in this town.
Steve Halstead.
The pavements cracked like broken bone,
white teeth beneath the tar.
We walked as though we’d always known
that’s how things are.
The butcher smiled with crimson lips,
his apron stiff with thread.
He wrapped the meat in wedding slips —
no beast had ever bled.
A mother hummed her child to sleep,
then locked him from the dawn.
The ones who sleep too deep
come back when someone’s gone.”
The queue outside the station grew;
no train had stopped for years.
Each face was calm, each ticket new,
each platform slick with tears.
The towers blinked with borrowed eyes,
their windows learned to stare.
They swallowed prayers instead of skies
and breathed them into air.
At dusk we heard the knocking start —
three knocks from every wall.
We answered with a steady heart;
the fourth would end us all.
Beneath the streets, a giant chest
rose softly in the clay.
It drew one breath — we held the rest —
and prayed it stayed that way.
Steve Halstead.
