The lofts at Rake Lane

It’s on Rake Lane in Wallasey, UK, that stands the house once owned by Thomas Henry (“Harry”) and Elizabeth (“Betty”) Phillips, where Mary Phelps-Harrison (née Phillips) and her brothers James (“Jimmy”) and Richard were raised. It would have been like visiting any other home, if not colored by recounted stories spanning lifetimes to an audience of Olivia (Mary’s daughter and my partner), myself, and the voids once filled by furniture and appliances. This was during the past summer of this year; at which time, the property had just been sold. It stood weathering the brisk English sea breeze as spider carcasses and dust bunnies met the ivy growing in at the foundation, hollowed out.

Of course, Jimmy’s house had become the refuge for much of Rake Lane’s belongings after Harry’s passing. Tucked away among the boxes of books, knick-knacks, and personal ephemera was one in particular which sat nearly filled with Jimmy’s self-published “Bumper Book of Poetry” – a collection of 27 writings from decades past. Guised as a modest English teacher, a true wordsmith revealed himself to me through reflections on lived experiences in his natural and societal environment. Among the most striking poems I found the text for this piece, which cast a newfound perspective to my brief visit to the home on Rake Lane.

In my setting of The lofts at Rake Lane, I felt a very personal connection to the material at many levels. Most importantly, I think, the piece is about the relationship between people and their places of living, but through the lens of a memory that weathers with age. It is respectfully dedicated to the entire Phillips family, in particular Mary, Olivia, and Jimmy; and with the deepest gratitude to my friends in the Bent Wrench ensemble, who premiered the piece in November 2024.

Performance Time: 5’30”

(Text:)

We’ll leave it in the loft.

Childish things stashed where no sun bleaches,

in soft and silent services.

Darkness breeds in the upper reaches.

The attic itself was not discreet enough.

Memories of the house must blend

with dust that settles on narrow beams –

plangent tenants of the gable-end

History chips like porcelain

in rough and strawless packing cases.

Unquiet witnesses are gathering

in those high and secret places.