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There are many rich historical writings about our Downs but this page is about contemporary voices of all ages and backgrounds from our community that speak of our times.
Over thousands of years our chalk grassland has become a unique landscape, but its fragile and its future hangs in the balance. We’d like to hear from a multitude of voices on its behalf. Submissions may take the form of poetry or short pieces of prose or flash fiction. There is no lower or upper age limit. Poems or prose should be no longer than 200 words maximum. You can include an original photo to accompany your writing, but we ask you to verify that it is your own work for copyright purposes. Email submissions to chalktalk2021@gmail.com |
Therapy
I pull the cap down over my ears and start walking. The air is cool and fresh on my face, a relief after the stifling fug of disinfectant and sickness of the hospital.
I’m still breathless but I keep going. I struggle with the gate, then I’m through and follow the springy green path, gently downhill.
I collapse on to the damp grass. This is my ‘go-to’ place. Below me now the rusty, worn remains of the barns and the donkey wheel from times gone by. Sheep move aside for me, munching, and new grass peeps through the tilled earth with its flecks of white and brown.
I lie back and absorb the warmth of the sun. The trilling of the skylarks and the distant bleating provide the music.
I’ll be here when the wheat is tall and I can breathe in the scent of freshly cut grass. When butterflies cover this path with their iridescent blue, shimmering in the summer heat. When the men gather these sheep and transform them into skinny white creations.
These Downs are my therapy and their beauty and life will nurture me through.
Jo Harper March 2021
The Lost Village
Deep in the Downs no sign is seen
of hidden homes in fields folded;
no infant sprawls upon the sward;
no tolling bell tells of the dead,
for even death itself is fled
now ev’ry soul’s departed. Yet,
if nothing of a nave remains,
where once a people knelt and prayed,
still their stories trouble the brooding earth,
beneath these sky-borne larks, rejoicing.
Chris Arthur
Chris has lived in Brighton since 1965 (when he joined the University of Sussex) and has
always loved the Downs.
Balsdean was inhabited until the Second World War, when the population was evacuated and the
buildings were used for artillery practice. These were never rebuilt, and the people never returned. A
slate marks the site of the vanished chapel.
Deep in the Downs no sign is seen
of hidden homes in fields folded;
no infant sprawls upon the sward;
no tolling bell tells of the dead,
for even death itself is fled
now ev’ry soul’s departed. Yet,
if nothing of a nave remains,
where once a people knelt and prayed,
still their stories trouble the brooding earth,
beneath these sky-borne larks, rejoicing.
Chris Arthur
Chris has lived in Brighton since 1965 (when he joined the University of Sussex) and has
always loved the Downs.
Balsdean was inhabited until the Second World War, when the population was evacuated and the
buildings were used for artillery practice. These were never rebuilt, and the people never returned. A
slate marks the site of the vanished chapel.
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The Downs
By Amaya Daphne Paun Age 10, from Brighton Chalky white hillsides, Views of blue sea tides. Grassy green slopes, A place of great hopes. Tall trees young and old, Coloured flowers bright and bold. Plants slowly towering, Crops gradually flowering. Sheeps and cows, Munching on leafy boughs. A range of insects hovering, Buzzing bees pollinating. Spring flowers rise up, Summer picnics with reusable cups. Autumn leaves fall, This is a winter walk for all. Spring, summer, autumn or winter, Come here for a daily linger. Walk around the dusty mounds, All here at the grassy Downs. Nature is only a walk away, It’s in your life every day. But here is a place where nature will be found, Our beautiful, wonderful Downs. |
Six Downland Haiku
Colin Gibbs High above Saltdean A butterfly emerges... Brief lives on old hills Lepidopterist Smile mirroring the downland The first Chalkhill Blue A darting hawk moth - Drawn to towering thistles Over sward jungle Alive with insects Fields of flowers on chalk downs... Small joys on the way All colours are here Butterfly kaleidoscope... Just green from afar Ancient farmers’ toils Rich carpets of life remain Will we protect them? |
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THE THINGS WE MOST VALUE It’s a sparkling morning Hear up on the hill The skylarks are singing O’er the old rugged mill The sward is all silvered And sugared with frost The things we most value All come without cost |
I wrote this poem recently for my brother whilst walking my dog Monty on our local Beacon Hill LNR. Marc, my brother, I knew was struggling with his senior management job - most of his workforce furloughed or isolating and himself in recovery from Covid-19. I texted the poem to him whilst walking.
It was one of those crisp frosty mornings - the larks always lift my spirits. The photo (taken on my iPhone 6) is from the bridle path heading south east towards Rottingdean windmill which is just over the horizon.
I am a founding member of Friends of Beacon Hill and Co-founder and Trustee of the Beacon Hub Brighton project - a charity with the aim of establishing an Eco-education and Visitor Centre in the abandoned golf pavilion adjacent to the windmill.
Kind Regards and keep up the good work!
Jay Butler
It was one of those crisp frosty mornings - the larks always lift my spirits. The photo (taken on my iPhone 6) is from the bridle path heading south east towards Rottingdean windmill which is just over the horizon.
I am a founding member of Friends of Beacon Hill and Co-founder and Trustee of the Beacon Hub Brighton project - a charity with the aim of establishing an Eco-education and Visitor Centre in the abandoned golf pavilion adjacent to the windmill.
Kind Regards and keep up the good work!
Jay Butler
Health Walk on the Chalky South Downs
Every time he went on a Health walk on the Chalky South Downs, Joe would pick up a piece of flint and inspect it. It fascinated him. This was a relic left by a Neolithic ancestor. He would hold it in his hand and feel the smoothness of the black stone surrounded with white chalk. He would imagine it being used as a sharpening tool or for scraping fur. He would breathe in the air, squint his eyes and imagine himself 6,000 years ago. Part of a tribe of people, possibly a hunter gatherer looking out for bits of flint to make arrow heads. They would make their way up to Whitehawk Hill and look around this wonderful landscape.
Life would have been harder yet simpler. Tess, his wife, would have appreciated his skills. She would have needed him. He would have been useful. Instead of being under her feet. At home, he googled Palaeontology and there was an open university course. He was just about to sign up when Tess said,
“Make yourself useful and sort out the recycling bin.”
“Yes love,” he replied, as he closed the laptop.
Karen Antoni
Every time he went on a Health walk on the Chalky South Downs, Joe would pick up a piece of flint and inspect it. It fascinated him. This was a relic left by a Neolithic ancestor. He would hold it in his hand and feel the smoothness of the black stone surrounded with white chalk. He would imagine it being used as a sharpening tool or for scraping fur. He would breathe in the air, squint his eyes and imagine himself 6,000 years ago. Part of a tribe of people, possibly a hunter gatherer looking out for bits of flint to make arrow heads. They would make their way up to Whitehawk Hill and look around this wonderful landscape.
Life would have been harder yet simpler. Tess, his wife, would have appreciated his skills. She would have needed him. He would have been useful. Instead of being under her feet. At home, he googled Palaeontology and there was an open university course. He was just about to sign up when Tess said,
“Make yourself useful and sort out the recycling bin.”
“Yes love,” he replied, as he closed the laptop.
Karen Antoni