Recently, I have been writing some poetry based on the town where I live. Some writelinkers may remember drafts of this poem in poetry arena some time back. It was one of the poems I read at Droitwich Spa's inaugural Salt Day in September 2006 and was published in a special booklet to commemorate the occasion.

[More:]

Salt of the Earth

Follow the curved spine of the Saltway
that still hugs Droitwich Spa centre
and take a thin bone one-way
down to its famous brine baths.
Relax, float weightless, let salt caress
your skin, feel heat assault your senses,
taste the town’s history in your mouth:
the salty sweat of generations
working at medieval brine wells,
raising buckets with the rydhoc
or boiling brine in giant metal pans.

Sit on the grass in Vines Park
between the canal and River Salwarpe.
Watch for gardeners fertilising flower beds,
where brine factories once stood,
with a foundation of saltpetre:
Peter, pierre, rock, rock salt. Even the mud
curves us full circle back to the mineral
roots and bones of this salt of the earth
spa town where green shoots now spring
like brine out of the rich soil
strongly seasoned with life and history.

Footnote: The rydhoc was the mechanism used for lifting the large buckets of brine out of the wells.

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