Where Tall Trees Whisper Poem by John Berry

This title was the description given to a ramble described in the Liverpool Echo circa 1955. The phrase haunts me; I gladly acknowledge its source and thank the Echo for the many rambles it offered to the local populace so many years ago with its ‘Rambles Round Merseyside’ feature.
I don’t know how to describe this piece; it isn’t poetry yet its format is not that of true prose, and I hope it is seen as poetic. It is very personal to our own experience yet something we wish to share.

Wirral is not a tourist spot, yet it is beautiful. This just scratches its surface, yet it is so small that too many visitors would spoil its magic. Whatever this piece can be described as, I hope you will enjoy it.

Tall trees whisper; I drive a very silent car through lanes of Wirral.
It is a peninsula;
‘though it is hard to equate the Mersey bank,
its industry, urbanity and commercialism
With the Dee’s tree and field lined shores,
marshland, views and sunsets,
Distant views of Wales,
wind farms and walkers’ way.
Once even, a coalmine at Neston and,
a one-time railway along its length, Beeching-chopped.
However, even on its industrial side it holds the wonders
of a great capitalist’s philanthropy
in Port Sunlight and the Lady Lever Art Gallery and Museum.
A flattened tip runs from West Kirby and Hilbre
to the fairground fantasy of New Brighton.
So soon - - yet we have circumnavigated the Wirral Peninsula,
a heaven compressed world in a twenty mile nutshell;
small enough to walk, large enough to drive.
Old villages, thatched pubs.
My own tree and wall clad Oxton,
bejewelled with the precious stones it calls “Small gardens”;
An oasis village within Birkenhead
– an otherwise unpleasant town
though a mere ten minutes from the heart of Storeton Woods,
horse fields and livery;
drive up a pine clad mount;
penetrate ‘better-class, executive’ suburbia
to reach a giant hospital
where parking is a dirty word, even though within
the vast beauty of Arrowe Park.
A motorway bisects yet does not spoil the Wirral
making emergence simple and opening up Cheshire.
But that is for another day –
today belongs to my peninsula.
Hidden, a nuclear physics laboratory and works,
disguised as a lovely old village – Capenhurst
leading on to Willaston where once upon a time,
a hunt turned out on New Year’s Day –
- Or was it Boxing Day?
Beyond, perhaps the most lovely Wirral village –
Burton, thatch, cottages, houses, church and gardens
even a college – once the home of a Gladstone,
well-kept, unspoiled by ugly outbuildings,
with wondrous views of Dee and beyond.
Wirral is a place of ‘beyonds’.
Climb Thurstaston’s sandstone crown;
gaze on Wales’ Northern Deeside edge;
trace its line to the North West corner, then
sweep to the west across an invisible Ireland
northward to Blackpool Tower,
plains and hills of Lancashire and,
making full circle, see the fertile and productive
fields and woods of Cheshire.
Marred? Yes – industry has made its mark in places,
but man has placed two beautiful bridges,
one on each river, and all Man’s work is not ugly,
There can even be beauty in a cooling tower, - - can’t there?
West Kirby lies below, over Caldy Rugby Club’s pitches.
A small seaside town, as yet unspoiled;
no sea-front burger bar, arcade or large hotel
Undeveloped, save for marine lake, sailing club and residential promenade;
someone wants to build a hotel – that’ll be the end.
He doesn’t live in West Kirby, that’s for sure.
At the other end of quite a short trunk road is Chester
ancient, timbered, Roman even, though stylish,
fashionable and chic with cathedral, Roman walls,
Victoria R. memorial clock – even a racecourse!
Wirral is full of pubs that produce good food –
“Two for one”, “Two for £7”, “Two for a Tenner”,
Steak nights, curry nights, salad bars;
you won’t go hungry round here – I don’t!
Heswall, quite posh, has bars, bistros,
international cuisine and pubs
and yes, Tesco.
At Gayton roundabout, just down the road,
The Devon Doorway stands, thatched, smart, and
not really rural, opposite the Glegg Arms.
There are old mills, old barns, even a remaining railway
despite Beeching!
At Parkgate, still with stone, marine quayside
skirting the silted Dee.
whence Handel took his Messiah
to Dublin for its ‘Premiere’.
The Boathouse at one end of the ‘Prom’
serves smart food – a little ‘pricey’ while at the other
The Old Quay serves a fine carvery for £3.50 – yes £3.50,
Between - a ‘Smuggler’s Pub’ and a Public School,
dressed in a uniform of black and white,
and the best Ice Cream Shop for miles; or, buy some local shrimps.
Round the back and along the estuary bank, mile after mile –
Of marsh grass and bird-life, wild – just a few walkers are here;
then yet another pub ‘The Harp’ – tiny, cottage-like, ancient
What tales could it tell? – more smuggling I’ll bet! Long long ago.
Further along the river bank – even now, bits of coal and slate.-
And a jetty – mighty, stone-blocked – protrudes to where colliers
Neston Men and their boats once floated off their coal,
Yes – there was a local coalmine;
even, a government artillery range with, beyond
(that word keeps cropping up!) the strange, tiny village and church
of Shotwick once a port – now silted – miles from the water
(but this really was a place for smugglers and intrigue) .
Way back, we had turned our backs to the river
to walk up to a little market town and cross.
Neston. Hustle, bustle, weekly market;
still boasting decent, small shops;
still resistant to supermarket greed.
Now, ‘twixt Neston and Burton, Ness,
Liverpool University Gardens, a subject in themselves.
Fifty and more years ago we courted here. Happy days.
Now back in our car on this warm and pleasant day,
we drive in thankfully conditioned air to seek some
cask-conditioned comfort at one or other hostelry,
emerging, personally re-conditioned, saying once again,
“Isn’t the Wirral a lovely place to live? ”
Evening draws on; our now cool, silent car glides quietly
homeward for a mere twenty minutes;
the kettle is on;
we sit in our own ‘Small Garden of Oxton’
amid summer scents and birdsong,
sipping Assam Tea in China teacups.
Now where have I heard that before?

(Experimental prose-poem by John L. Berry)