Martin Matthews

by Webmaster, 3rd February 2021

An exploration of people's voices is inspiring this talented teacher

Reader Martin Matthews is a true Borderland soul. The secondary-school teacher has lived his adult life between Chester and Flintshire, and will soon have a PhD to his name.

"I'm currently completing a doctorate where I use the arts-based methodology of found poetry to explore and present people's voices," says Martin.

The results are quite special, leading to his recent publication in a UK poetry journal. 

"My personal poetry is inspired by people and places," he adds. "Most notably the outdoors."

That comes across loud and clear in the selection of his work we showcase here. Enjoy.



On a bright day in the
mountains, we’re still
not free.  The air is in
the lungs and the sights
are there to see. The 

paths and trees lead
to unknown places, in
the present and the
past. There is something 

dreamy about this place.
There is a concept that
we can last.  But
inside we know that

it is not so.  We speak
to each other but yet
we don’t.  Communication
has gone wireless.  

We are lost somewhere else.



The little adventures that
drive you on -
the joy of the ducks
the lure of a swan.

There’s something in the 
outdoors – we feel it in our bones.
We come home our hearts better,
with a pocket full of pine cones.



And so time folds like paper
swans, each moment has
an edge
           before it glides on.

And so with time she
was gone, like a song on
the wind.  Like she was never
          like she’d never sinned. 

And so you’ve lost what you
never could keep.
Time doesn’t allow possession;

it takes it all in one slow sweep.



The lights flickered.
The power went off.
The machines stopped.
We all paused. 

There was no whir
of computers, no pulsing
of power through

We sat back

and listened to the

            Perhaps they
would email an update –
but we wouldn’t get it. 

This is how things would
once have been – 

         with time to 




The carpark, where you
bashed the car on a rock 
that had stood there for
years and will remain when 

we are gone.  The paths that
snake up towards the place 
where ramparts grow like grassy
walls from the snow.  The 

mountains embrace one
another as they circle the valley 
enjoying the sights that people 
passed on by through the ages.

Now invaders stroll freely into 
that Iron Age fort, vaulting a 
stile where once defences lay,
indenting the ground that was 

once someone’s home.  But no
one owns this mountain.  It has 
stood for longer than we and will
stand with its sisters when we are 




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