Winter Wanderings

Once again I have been lucky enough to spend some time in Scotland over the New Year and attached are just a few of the (in focus) photos that I have deemed worthy of sharing.

Even for a colour blind, ham fisted, amateur half wit photographer like myself taking photographs in Scotland is really like shooting fish in a barrel (apologies to all you vegetarians) but you put your camera on auto, point at stunning landscape and press shutter. Bingo Bongo Bob’s your auntie!

Words and Pictures © D. Archer. January 2016.

Barnsley versus Google

Barnsley Poster

In order to raise some cash I have taken on the role of Cultural Attaché for my home town. I have been out and about with my camera and produced my first piece of advertising. 17 million copies will soon be distributed throughout the local area. The dispute with Google Maps is now resolved and finally my town can look forward to the year 1983 with hope and dreamy eyed ambition. The future is bright! The future is coal coloured.

And here lies the paradox. Barnsley is much more than the sum of its pregnant teenagers. Barnsley is my home town. I am from Barnsley, born and bred. This gives me the undeniable right to slag it off mercilessly but I will not be impressed if anyone else has a pop at it.

Words and Pictures © D. Archer. November 2015


Holiday Snaps

Here some of my recent holiday snaps. With my extra long selfie stick I can now capture myself and all the excitement of my destination in one picture. Witchcraft or what?

Words and portrait © D. Archer. November 2015.

The Northern Line

and the northern line heads north;
train and tarmac traverse forgotten agriculture
whilst against a dull horizon
the seeded rape in swathes of brushed yellow,
tractor scared, deep cut fields
frames, for a second,
the lightning split tree
that dares to bloom.

and the northern line heads north;
fleeting sheep being picturesque
cathedrals, greenery and greed juxtaposed,
the saintly and the secular
the modernist and the medieval
give way to cemeteries
filled with the unremarkable and the overgrown.

and the northern line heads north;
soon passed the ubiquitous supermarket,
factories and silos waiting to rust,
silent Sunday football pitches
scale modelled on the Somme under foot.

and the northern line heads north;
leaving hotels named after far away places,
a taunting to where you’d rather be
as more luggage and life stories
are tucked neatly above the sadness
that occupies every seat;

and the northern line heads north.

© D. Archer May 2014

Worsborough Wanderings

All images © D. Archer, May 2014 unless you are National Geographic magazine and want to give me an assignment to photograph the Amazon Basin, all expenses paid and on the proviso that no matter how bad the photos come out you will still pay me. I await your telephone call, yours sincerely D. Luded of Barnsley, South Yorkshire. All photos are taken around my local country park, Worsborough Mill, Barnsley, South Yorkshire. No talent was used in the making of these photographs.

The Cinder Path

The touch of my own hand draws weary,
long gone the soft skin of another
that would in street or field squeeze
between my ungloved fingers
a head turning smile
that had no needs for words.

Once the cinder path would make the only sound,
uniform under foot we walked our own pace,
oblivious to life’s diverging reasons;
now the clock between us says the most
and we find ourselves painfully lost
in the middle of a sentence
that is mirrored only
by the depth of the season.

I, alone, open my eyes
and inhale the weather just to see
the last leaf falling from the giving tree,
the demise of autumn,
the remains of regrets that lie on my tongue
will feed me through the winter
as I withdraw from the light
and hibernate from love.

© D. Archer. October 2012


Against Nature

One isolated bloom
in an unseasonal sun
defies the depth of nature
ignored by travellers
that aimlessly look
through condensation covered windows
on their overcrowded bus.

Gods gift of colour projected
against the tired and regressed;
concrete slab kerbstones and
sparse, dog fouled grass.

For a moment forgotten
is their cattle class condition
the microwave meal for one; the cat:
the depressing television.

Palm swipes away the mist
but quick drowned in the distance
the solitary spray that illuminates
their own road to perdition.

© D. Archer October 2011

I hate buses

Buses, buses everywhere
running for mine to catch
shotgun ready
hand-grenade pin pulled
just in case mine
is full of chavs.

I live in a depressing, harsh, ex coal mining town in the north of England, “Chav” is a term used to describe a distinct underclass who posses no moral compass, fashion sense or personal volume control button. I am cursed to travel on public transport with many of these primates as my enforced travelling companions. I wish my iPod volume went up to eleven.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011