In this episode, I talk to the poet David Harmer about Dylan Thomas’s ‘Poem in October’ and his own sequence ‘White Peak Histories.’ In our conversation, David discusses his connections with Thomas. He explains why ‘Poem in October’ (and ‘late Thomas’) appeals to him in particular. He talks about the shape and feel of the poem, its aural qualities, its preoccupation with birds and the seasons. David follows Thomas from the shore and climbs high up, ending his journey looking out over the water. He goes on to reflect on what ‘the border’ could mean in the context of this poem. David then goes on to explore the background to his poetry sequence ‘White Peak Histories’. He thinks about the lines he can draw between his own work and Thomas’s effusive language, Thomas’s verbal ‘swagger’. He delves into the geography of the White Peak and how this feeds into its histories in terms of both leisure and labour. David Harmer lives in Doncaster and is best known as a children’s writer with publications from McMillans Children’s Books, Frances Lincoln and recently, Small Donkey Press. A lot of his work for the Grown Ups is published in magazines. He also performs with Ray Globe as The Glummer Twins, often at the Edinburgh Fringe. Here's a little window into David's writing for children (his book It's Behind You) from the Pan McMillan Site. And here's the details of David's most recent book from Small Donkey Press. We mention the poetry magazine Tears in the Fence during our conversation. You can find out more about this poetry journal here. We also mention W S Graham's poem 'The Thermal Stair' (for the painter Peter Lanyon) which you can listen to - and read - on the Poetry Archive. Owen Sheers discusses Dylan Thomas with Matthew Paris on the BBC Radio 4 programme Great Lives here. You can read Dylan Thomas's 'Poem in October' at this website. You can follow me on X - @cwjoneschris or on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. White Peak Histories Rhienster Rock Once Raenstor Crag, the haunt of ravens hræfn; harbingers of wisdom, of slaughter, guardians of the Duke’s old coach road that twists beneath this sudden rise of limestone where the Bradford narrows near Hollow Farm a slow drift, thick with sedge and celandine. The ravens are long-gone, no hoarse ghost cries over burial bones or carrion chatter, no close councils and conspiracies. Shifted into tricksters and thieves, they left their reef-knoll condemned as vermin, an abrupt unkindness bringing despair. Two shot in Youlgrave churchyard fetched eight pennies, four birds a shilling, held by their legs, their smashed skulls open. Trackways Half-lost, eroded like rumours whispered beneath the skin of maps the tracks of travellers, pack-horse carters, cattle drovers, cloth merchants, drifts of malt-horses lie abandoned under new-sprung roads, uprooted farms and tarmac. But here at Robin Hood’s Stride, the mock-beggar’s hall high above Bradford Dale, jumbled rocks protect the Portway, guide it past the Nine Stones Circle down to Broad Meadow Farm where Saxon ridges rise like waves to push the causeway straight over the river at Hollow Bridge then up Dark Lane. The path still beats below our footfall, it flowed before settlers on Castle Hill Ring brewed their iron or buried their dead in the heaped barrows and tumuli and when we walk it their voices clamour through the rain, eager to point out the way ahead. Portway flood, 1718 Winter unleashed a deluge of waters, the ford at Alport scoured out by river-force Bradford and Lathkill locked in a tumult of pell-mell, white-flecked land-soak. Monk’s Hall up to its haunches, inundated, thick ropes of stream-melt, cattle pushed up breakneck banking, dams burst foaming like the mouths of dead horses. A gang of carriers faced the flooded Portway. How to travel to the north of Old Town? How to cross this fury of water? They tried to push through. It hurled them away, ankles tumbled over their heads, mouths gaped, breath failed them, limbs flailing and snatching at quick grasps of rock, branches, horse-gear. Their bales and bundles, leather goods, baubles dragged to the mill-race, the broken wheel reluctant to offer any hand hold. Instead they drowned crying out for a bridge, found their souls sodden in Derbyshire rain-drench, unprotected by ravens. And as the waters had not yet dried from the earth no dry ground rose to cover the corpses.

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