Launched in 2022, the first year's challenge is now available as a book: A year of writing prompts. Read it to get a good idea of how to tackle this.
Every month a painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Contributors are invited to submit a poem up to 30 lines or a story up to 500 words (as a Word .doc file) about the painting.
The deadline is four weeks from the published date, so the deadline for the May 5 prompt will be June 5 and so on.
The submissions are initially published on this website and then in a book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
Every month a painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Contributors are invited to submit a poem up to 30 lines or a story up to 500 words (as a Word .doc file) about the painting.
The deadline is four weeks from the published date, so the deadline for the May 5 prompt will be June 5 and so on.
The submissions are initially published on this website and then in a book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
November 8, 2023
Here comes Sundae, oils by Cecilia Cardiff
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Here Comes Sundae
by Donna Turner
“Your eyes are bigger than your belly,” my grandad teases as a sundae glass overflowing with pastel coloured layers of melting ice cream is placed in front of me. Candyfloss pink and sherbert lemon yellow drips run down the side of the tall glass, multi-coloured sprinkles catching a ride on the flow of ice cream. A swirling tower of whipped cream, a fan shaped wafer and a chocolate flake accessorise the dessert. The cherry on top sits proud, its stalk waiting to be grabbed, inviting itself to be rescued from the mountain of sweetness. And grab it my grandad does. He pops it into his mouth and discards the stalk onto his coffee saucer. He looks at me with the innocent shrug of ‘you don't mind do you?’ I don't mind, I don’t like cherries. With that I lift the long thin spoon and attack the mountainous treat with gusto. Mouthful after mouthful of cold, sweet, sticky goodness, stopping occasionally to swap my spoon for the wafer or the flake. I can’t wait to get to my favourite part. Half way down the glass and continuing to the bottom is the chocolate ice cream now melting and joining the chocolate sauce to make a brown pool that I almost need a straw to finish. The spoon is not fit for purpose in extracting every last delicious drip from the pointed bottom of the vessel. I surreptitiously place the spoon on the table and with both hands lift the sundae glass to my mouth and drain the dregs, licking around the inside of the glass as I do. Only when I'm finished do I look up at my grandad, who having drunk his coffee is now reading the Sunday newspaper we picked up on the way to the seafront that morning. He looks up as if aware his attention is now required, a smile spreads across his sun weathered face and he simply says, “Where do you put it all?!”
That was my lasting memory of that wonderful summer I spent with my grandad. I was nine years old, my mother had dumped me there to spend the summer with her new boyfriend who apparently didn’t like children. When that relationship ended, she moved us away.
The next time I saw my grandad was almost twenty years later. The beach side cafe was swapped for a nursing home, the sand covered pavement for threadbare carpet, the smell of the salty sea air for the smell of bleach and the cacophony of conversions and waves and hustle and bustle of cafe life for hushed tones and occasional alarm calls. I’m not sure he always knew who I was but I would visit every Sunday and one special weekend on his eighty-fifth birthday I requested a special treat from the kitchen.
“Look grandad, here come our sundaes.”
Sundae – what’s in a name?
by Don Magee
Erin held Fiona’s hand tight as they looked at the waiter strolling through the Spanish tavern with a tray of tapas, but more importantly, a series of what looked like ice cream things.
Erin looked bemused, "What is that, and why are we here?"
Fiona smiled, "That young lady is a sundae."
Erin grinned before replying, "But that’s the name of a day… when we go to church… when the priest starts all the boring ceremony things…Sunday is not an…" Erin stopped, confusion rippling her young visage such that a frown was folded as an argument.
Fiona was Erin’s godmother, and to say they were close would be an understatement, given the generation difference, closeness had no definition of their emotional bond.
"What’s that thing he is carrying?" Erin was both confused and somewhat petulant.
"Oh ice cream, several flavours, liquors again several flavours, and fruit et cetera."
"So it’s an ice creamy… thing with other bits on top?" Erin was getting the message albeit finding it meaningless.
"Yes."
"So.." and here Erin (who was eight years old) couldn’t comprehend how adults could call an… what can we call it.. an ice cream concoction, by a name that was absurd.
"Auntie Fiona," intoned Erin.
"Oh heaven forbid Erin… call me Fi, okay?"
"Okay Fi, I would like one of those things… Sundaes.. is that the right plural? Also why are they not called tall ice cream whatevers? It’s stupid… they are ice creams with other bits, so you stupid adults call them by a holy name…"
Fi quickly interrupted, "Yes but the spelling's different."
"Then why not call them by another name….Spain’s a catholic country so why do they tolerate this adult weirdness."
Fi smiled indulgently, "They are also called knickerbocker glory back home."
Immediately she said this she regretted it for Erin burst into uncontrolled giggles. "So you call it a knicker something… why do you call ice cream by ladies panties and knickers. You adults are so very weird."
In truth there is very little argument to counter her statement.
And this is where the story gets convoluted. Erin was Burbank’s daughter, Fi was Gubenheim’s fourth wife, and there the story stalled, albeit some explanation is needed. Gub was a philanderer who treated women like a bus service until Fiona came into his orbit, and then attraction; she was very lithe in figure, extremely attractive, flaxen haired with short to long hair, and very, very independent. She met him at a convention, and he… what is the word for, gave in and recognised that this was the final event. Well, Fiona for Gub became just that. She married him, and he loved her to bits (no idea what this really means), was soul mate appropriate, but she had an Irish spirit that was frightening. Gub could not work out who she was, and what she was. This would be the battle of the Alamo.
Meanwhile, to stop digressing, Erin was interested if somewhat perplexed. "I would like one of those ice creamy things."
"You mean a Sundae?" Erin just pointed.
Now here we arrive at a bit of a dilemma regarding relationship dynamics.
"Auntie Fiona… sorry Fi," Fiona immediately closed her down.
"I’m not your auntie."
"Then what are you?"
"I’m your mum’s friend… What does it matter? Keep calling me Fi."
Before the ordering part Erin asked a question. "Mum was talking to Dad and said something about the eleventh commandment.. not sure what that’s all about."
By now Erin and Fi were each working through a Sundae. At this question Fi nearly imploded whilst spooning into her mouth.
"OMG," she groaned, "and what else was mentioned?"
"Just that… what were they talking about?.. I thought there were only ten. Do you like Mum and Dad?"
"Very much so but.." Fiona told her a very abbreviated version of the eleventh .
Readers will find the fuller version as an epilogue at the conclusion of this short/long story if they are so inclined to read it.
Fiona bowed her head, "Look little pumpkin, adult logic, adult thoughts are complicated. We are so complicated that at times we do not recognise the very complications that made us complicated."
Fi could see this explanation was going nowhere. At that moment the waiter paused at their table with a questioning look.
Erin studied him, looked at Fi and stated, "I would like another Tuesday please."
The two females collapsed in hysterical giggles. Fi held up the glass, and said, "Two more please."
Now Spanish waiters are not known for English humour, save this one understood.
"For you two sparkling ladies then so be it. I will deliver the best there is."
Erin studied him, "You aren’t Spanish are you?"
He grinned, "No, I understand your humour..no I’m definitely not Spanish."
Epilogue:
Gub was a womaniser in youth, and also up until the fiery Irish woman came into his orbit. But those ingrained traits could emerge rarely, but oh the consequences. He contacted a garden company to quote for landscaping. She arrived, youngish, flirty, and he flirted back. Fiona was standing nearby with new garden shears, witnessing this alchemy. Gub looked up, gulped and knew what was going to happen, shouted at the young female to go, as she also saw the implications. She ran like the wind towards the garden gate; Gub sprinted like Usain Bolt towards the house. Fi looked at the woman, turned and launched the shears towards a panicking Gub. She had no intention of hitting
him. They sank into the lawn twenty metres to his left. Thus came the eleventh commandment ‘Thou shalt not outrageously flirt with a young female while your wife is wielding, and preparing to use sharp garden shears like a war implement."
The poem:
The question raised
and at the moment the waiter passed
the young girl raised a question that
came from the garden of common sense;
it lingered in the hot dry air
as a Spanish summer, a clear blue sky
gave thought to her, but more the why
a desert was named after a solemn day
that was special in the religious world
especially to her young life curled
beneath an inquisitive mind.
So she sat on the sunbed, her thoughts far spread
at the adult condition that gave a name
in duplicate too, but for her some shame
to replicate the sacred solemn day
as to give an ice cream the name sundae.
To ask, then turn, and turn again
as the blazoned sun, and a quiet refrain.
Of music spreads the Catalan swell
with the pulse that sits so very well
in a rural Spanish taverna.
And in the meadow of concluded thought
where lies an answer that a question brought
to the table of a conversation where that
became the bond with so young who sat
to the silent drip of enquiry.
Don Magee
I Dream of Sundaes
She was tired, drained, on the cusp of sleep,
the day’s heat had claimed her strength.
How she longed for something cool,
she would go to any length.
She lay in the shade by the pool,
on damp recently watered grass.
She prised open an eyelid,
when she heard the chink of glass.
She spied a waiter ambling along,
balancing ice cream sundaes on a tray.
She called, “Waiter, can you bring me one,
if you are coming back this way?”
He delivered his order then went to her,
“We have three different sundaes, what will it be?”
Barely audible, she said “ I am so hot,
so please can you bring me all three?”
The waiter retreated at a snail’s pace,
she waited an age in anticipation.
She could taste the ice cream on her lips,
from the triple ice cream sundae sensation.
Then suddenly a loud bell rang,
she thought this must be her ice cream.
No, it was her bedside alarm,
it had all been a lovely dream.
It was a cold damp morning in London,
she still longed for that ice cream sundae.
Alas reality had struck her hard,
time for work, it was Monday!
Garry Davidson
Sundae waiter
" Whoops!" the tray begins to slide,
cherries, fruit, and icecream slides,
down to the end, desert glasses fall.
The waiter blushes, feeling small,
the blob melts, on the carpet floor!
He feels like running out the door.
"Waiter, waiter, where's my sundae?
For him, it hasn't been a very fun day.
So the waiter makes a run for cover,
where he calls the chef, to make another!
Laura Sanders
by Donna Turner
“Your eyes are bigger than your belly,” my grandad teases as a sundae glass overflowing with pastel coloured layers of melting ice cream is placed in front of me. Candyfloss pink and sherbert lemon yellow drips run down the side of the tall glass, multi-coloured sprinkles catching a ride on the flow of ice cream. A swirling tower of whipped cream, a fan shaped wafer and a chocolate flake accessorise the dessert. The cherry on top sits proud, its stalk waiting to be grabbed, inviting itself to be rescued from the mountain of sweetness. And grab it my grandad does. He pops it into his mouth and discards the stalk onto his coffee saucer. He looks at me with the innocent shrug of ‘you don't mind do you?’ I don't mind, I don’t like cherries. With that I lift the long thin spoon and attack the mountainous treat with gusto. Mouthful after mouthful of cold, sweet, sticky goodness, stopping occasionally to swap my spoon for the wafer or the flake. I can’t wait to get to my favourite part. Half way down the glass and continuing to the bottom is the chocolate ice cream now melting and joining the chocolate sauce to make a brown pool that I almost need a straw to finish. The spoon is not fit for purpose in extracting every last delicious drip from the pointed bottom of the vessel. I surreptitiously place the spoon on the table and with both hands lift the sundae glass to my mouth and drain the dregs, licking around the inside of the glass as I do. Only when I'm finished do I look up at my grandad, who having drunk his coffee is now reading the Sunday newspaper we picked up on the way to the seafront that morning. He looks up as if aware his attention is now required, a smile spreads across his sun weathered face and he simply says, “Where do you put it all?!”
That was my lasting memory of that wonderful summer I spent with my grandad. I was nine years old, my mother had dumped me there to spend the summer with her new boyfriend who apparently didn’t like children. When that relationship ended, she moved us away.
The next time I saw my grandad was almost twenty years later. The beach side cafe was swapped for a nursing home, the sand covered pavement for threadbare carpet, the smell of the salty sea air for the smell of bleach and the cacophony of conversions and waves and hustle and bustle of cafe life for hushed tones and occasional alarm calls. I’m not sure he always knew who I was but I would visit every Sunday and one special weekend on his eighty-fifth birthday I requested a special treat from the kitchen.
“Look grandad, here come our sundaes.”
Sundae – what’s in a name?
by Don Magee
Erin held Fiona’s hand tight as they looked at the waiter strolling through the Spanish tavern with a tray of tapas, but more importantly, a series of what looked like ice cream things.
Erin looked bemused, "What is that, and why are we here?"
Fiona smiled, "That young lady is a sundae."
Erin grinned before replying, "But that’s the name of a day… when we go to church… when the priest starts all the boring ceremony things…Sunday is not an…" Erin stopped, confusion rippling her young visage such that a frown was folded as an argument.
Fiona was Erin’s godmother, and to say they were close would be an understatement, given the generation difference, closeness had no definition of their emotional bond.
"What’s that thing he is carrying?" Erin was both confused and somewhat petulant.
"Oh ice cream, several flavours, liquors again several flavours, and fruit et cetera."
"So it’s an ice creamy… thing with other bits on top?" Erin was getting the message albeit finding it meaningless.
"Yes."
"So.." and here Erin (who was eight years old) couldn’t comprehend how adults could call an… what can we call it.. an ice cream concoction, by a name that was absurd.
"Auntie Fiona," intoned Erin.
"Oh heaven forbid Erin… call me Fi, okay?"
"Okay Fi, I would like one of those things… Sundaes.. is that the right plural? Also why are they not called tall ice cream whatevers? It’s stupid… they are ice creams with other bits, so you stupid adults call them by a holy name…"
Fi quickly interrupted, "Yes but the spelling's different."
"Then why not call them by another name….Spain’s a catholic country so why do they tolerate this adult weirdness."
Fi smiled indulgently, "They are also called knickerbocker glory back home."
Immediately she said this she regretted it for Erin burst into uncontrolled giggles. "So you call it a knicker something… why do you call ice cream by ladies panties and knickers. You adults are so very weird."
In truth there is very little argument to counter her statement.
And this is where the story gets convoluted. Erin was Burbank’s daughter, Fi was Gubenheim’s fourth wife, and there the story stalled, albeit some explanation is needed. Gub was a philanderer who treated women like a bus service until Fiona came into his orbit, and then attraction; she was very lithe in figure, extremely attractive, flaxen haired with short to long hair, and very, very independent. She met him at a convention, and he… what is the word for, gave in and recognised that this was the final event. Well, Fiona for Gub became just that. She married him, and he loved her to bits (no idea what this really means), was soul mate appropriate, but she had an Irish spirit that was frightening. Gub could not work out who she was, and what she was. This would be the battle of the Alamo.
Meanwhile, to stop digressing, Erin was interested if somewhat perplexed. "I would like one of those ice creamy things."
"You mean a Sundae?" Erin just pointed.
Now here we arrive at a bit of a dilemma regarding relationship dynamics.
"Auntie Fiona… sorry Fi," Fiona immediately closed her down.
"I’m not your auntie."
"Then what are you?"
"I’m your mum’s friend… What does it matter? Keep calling me Fi."
Before the ordering part Erin asked a question. "Mum was talking to Dad and said something about the eleventh commandment.. not sure what that’s all about."
By now Erin and Fi were each working through a Sundae. At this question Fi nearly imploded whilst spooning into her mouth.
"OMG," she groaned, "and what else was mentioned?"
"Just that… what were they talking about?.. I thought there were only ten. Do you like Mum and Dad?"
"Very much so but.." Fiona told her a very abbreviated version of the eleventh .
Readers will find the fuller version as an epilogue at the conclusion of this short/long story if they are so inclined to read it.
Fiona bowed her head, "Look little pumpkin, adult logic, adult thoughts are complicated. We are so complicated that at times we do not recognise the very complications that made us complicated."
Fi could see this explanation was going nowhere. At that moment the waiter paused at their table with a questioning look.
Erin studied him, looked at Fi and stated, "I would like another Tuesday please."
The two females collapsed in hysterical giggles. Fi held up the glass, and said, "Two more please."
Now Spanish waiters are not known for English humour, save this one understood.
"For you two sparkling ladies then so be it. I will deliver the best there is."
Erin studied him, "You aren’t Spanish are you?"
He grinned, "No, I understand your humour..no I’m definitely not Spanish."
Epilogue:
Gub was a womaniser in youth, and also up until the fiery Irish woman came into his orbit. But those ingrained traits could emerge rarely, but oh the consequences. He contacted a garden company to quote for landscaping. She arrived, youngish, flirty, and he flirted back. Fiona was standing nearby with new garden shears, witnessing this alchemy. Gub looked up, gulped and knew what was going to happen, shouted at the young female to go, as she also saw the implications. She ran like the wind towards the garden gate; Gub sprinted like Usain Bolt towards the house. Fi looked at the woman, turned and launched the shears towards a panicking Gub. She had no intention of hitting
him. They sank into the lawn twenty metres to his left. Thus came the eleventh commandment ‘Thou shalt not outrageously flirt with a young female while your wife is wielding, and preparing to use sharp garden shears like a war implement."
The poem:
The question raised
and at the moment the waiter passed
the young girl raised a question that
came from the garden of common sense;
it lingered in the hot dry air
as a Spanish summer, a clear blue sky
gave thought to her, but more the why
a desert was named after a solemn day
that was special in the religious world
especially to her young life curled
beneath an inquisitive mind.
So she sat on the sunbed, her thoughts far spread
at the adult condition that gave a name
in duplicate too, but for her some shame
to replicate the sacred solemn day
as to give an ice cream the name sundae.
To ask, then turn, and turn again
as the blazoned sun, and a quiet refrain.
Of music spreads the Catalan swell
with the pulse that sits so very well
in a rural Spanish taverna.
And in the meadow of concluded thought
where lies an answer that a question brought
to the table of a conversation where that
became the bond with so young who sat
to the silent drip of enquiry.
Don Magee
I Dream of Sundaes
She was tired, drained, on the cusp of sleep,
the day’s heat had claimed her strength.
How she longed for something cool,
she would go to any length.
She lay in the shade by the pool,
on damp recently watered grass.
She prised open an eyelid,
when she heard the chink of glass.
She spied a waiter ambling along,
balancing ice cream sundaes on a tray.
She called, “Waiter, can you bring me one,
if you are coming back this way?”
He delivered his order then went to her,
“We have three different sundaes, what will it be?”
Barely audible, she said “ I am so hot,
so please can you bring me all three?”
The waiter retreated at a snail’s pace,
she waited an age in anticipation.
She could taste the ice cream on her lips,
from the triple ice cream sundae sensation.
Then suddenly a loud bell rang,
she thought this must be her ice cream.
No, it was her bedside alarm,
it had all been a lovely dream.
It was a cold damp morning in London,
she still longed for that ice cream sundae.
Alas reality had struck her hard,
time for work, it was Monday!
Garry Davidson
Sundae waiter
" Whoops!" the tray begins to slide,
cherries, fruit, and icecream slides,
down to the end, desert glasses fall.
The waiter blushes, feeling small,
the blob melts, on the carpet floor!
He feels like running out the door.
"Waiter, waiter, where's my sundae?
For him, it hasn't been a very fun day.
So the waiter makes a run for cover,
where he calls the chef, to make another!
Laura Sanders
September 7, 2023
Jennifer says, "I can only add very little to this picture. Fred was a very large bay, a Dutch cross, and he was particularly fond of Polo mints. This was painted while he was whiffling in his owner's hand, searching for a Polo with his muzzle whiskers - and sure enough, there it was, one tiny Polo to be crunched with those enormous back teeth! One happy and much-loved horse. The bond and the trust between human and horse is something totally other. It takes years to build, and if one is privileged enough to experience this, it makes one feel very humble and thankful, that such a huge animal can trust you, and you can trust him to take care of you. You watch his ears, the key to his thoughts; you can read them immediately. Is he anxious or worried about something? Is he about to take flight away from something? Or is he calm and peaceful? Unlikely to plant his great feet on your own, which can be agonizing, but of which he will be totally unaware. The smell of a horse's neck is a perfume all of its own, somewhere to keep brushed and somewhere to impart secrets and dreams - you wouldn't put your nose near his head, he would immediately throw his head up and inadvertently biff your nose - result nosebleed, a horse's beautiful skull is a very hard object. A friend to cherish and care for."
Fred
The workers trudged into the stoney farmyard
behind the horse and cart
kicking their muddy boots clean
soon to be in the kitchen
to devour farmer's wife's delicious dinner
it had been a long, hard, hot day
but the mood felt good
the hay was cut and saved.
Fred the horse was fed and watered
time to return to his field
for his well earned rest, to munch
his green grass and doze through nightfall
farmer's youngest daughter, Angela
was hoisted high onto his broad, strong back
this was not a chore for Angela, she loved Fred
she led him slowly from the yard.
The crowd sat round the extended table
eating, yapping and laughing
'till after some time farmer's wife asked,
"What's keeping Angela?"
Farmer stood up and headed for the door
muttering, "Won't be long!"
His pace accelerated
heading for the high field.
Climbing the gate, the shock struck him
Angela lay on the ground, motionless
as he raced towards her he noticed...
Fred standing over her, protecting her
the horse glanced at farmer, not twitching
farmer bent down to Angela to pick her up
her eyes opened, blinking and staring,
"Sorry Dad, I must have fallen off!"
Maurice Sherlock
Can a portrait speak?
by Don Magee
Celia and Conrad once again sat facing a painting in the gallery. Celia sat stiff, legs crossed, with an annoyed petulant look on her face.
"You have some explaining to do..." She exploded at Conrad before continuing, "The last time you dragged me here it was to look at a Sussex landscape. Okay, not too bad, perhaps your Cider with Rosie moment but this…"
She uncrossed and crossed her legs quickly as if that would convey her irritation.
"This is a horse…. more exactly part of a horse… mainly its head. Why on God’s earth do you think I want to look at a head, and neck of a horse?"
Conrad made as if to speak, but Celia shut him immediately.
"Further they, or the painter has called the horse Fred. Who does that? It’s a person, a human person's name… do not laugh or I will walkaway… why does anyone call a horse by a person's name, I mean why not like the racing people call it something like… oh like Kicks up Mud, Run like the wind, Brown head smiling?
By now nearby visitors were beginning to listen with accelerated amusement. Celia continued, "I’ve never been on a horse, have zero interest in equine things, animals, equiney people (she wasn’t sure that was a word but didn’t care). So why, why am I here?"
Conrad was used to the ebullient and verbose explosions of his wife. He explained, "You told me after the Sussex landscape, that you too often immersed yourself in what you see, that it becomes part of your reality. You called it a night wake… your words."
She smiled through some tears, "I have vivid impressionist dreams, and when I wake I feel that I have lived that dream… it’s overwhelming, and so utterly believable…" she hesitated. "It’s like I change into another person, almost another dimension beyond reality. Your Sussex landscape, well I dreamt it, and it almost became my next day reality. I sometimes have trouble disassociating… it scares me. So given what I said, and what you know, why on earth do you drag me, oh yes by deception, here to look at a horse’s head?"
Conrad began to speak, but she held up her hand, pursed her lips, and with an urgent tearfulness stated, "I do not want a reality with a horse in it, and further, a painting of a horse. Are you mental? Is time turning you into some kind of kinky weirdo? And let’s get real….calling a horse Fred…. I will say it again call it Polo mint head. You know Conrad If you mention to our friends that we looked at Fred, they would assume a human, and when you explained you may well lose them as friends given your penchant for strange views, and explanations."
She pondered some more, then laughingly stated, "I would rather look at a Picasso version of a horse, at least I wouldn’t have a clue what sort of disembodied maelstrom of a horse’s anatomy he would paint."
At last Conrad took his chance to speak. "Come on Celia get real, at least you see a proper horse not some… well Picasso had some very strange perceptions on what, and how to paint people, or anything come to that… well that’s my view." He continued in the absence of her interrupting, ‘I thought that a completely different subject matter, not a landscape impressionist style, or portrait… well I thought it would calm your reality thoughts, but perhaps I didn’t think enough."
Suddenly, a little girl wedged herself between her parents. Erin looked from one parent to the other, smiled contentedly, looked forward, and said, "Hello Fred."
Celia and Conrad sat bolt upright, a look on both faces of utter bewilderment, and, to be honest, intense consternation.
"Fred looks happy," Erin said clapping her small hands. "Grandma’s in the other picture room… well I think she is."
Celia now fairly distraught, turned to Erin, "How did you know… why did you call the painting… the horse’s head Fred?"
Erin smile demurely, puzzled at why her mum would ask such an obvious question. "I met Fred at Donal’s farm…. Grandpa took me to see the horses. I recognised Fred in the painting. He’s very big… I stroked him, and he talked to me, well snorted really but I understood what he meant."
Celia managed to close her gaping mouth, "Erin you are five years old…. horse’s do not talk, they all look the same… big heads, brown, black or whatever, and how can you understand a snort?"
Conrad was blinking in utter confusion.
"Of course you can understand a snort… and yes Mum I recognised Fred… look there," she pointed at his head. "He can see me, and it’s his eyes.." By now Erin was getting fidgety, "and yes Mum, he may not speak to you, but he does to me."
And thus Celia realised that her daughter had inherited her impressionist dream reality syndrome, and life was about to change. How poignant the moment that sits in the sea of unexpectedness, and where come the slings and arrows of unseasoned assault. Their lives would change, at first with trepidation, but long term, as Erin grew to womanhood, an overwhelming fulfilment would suffuse their middle years.
Erin’s impression
And the small girl saw a friend in view
recognised, not questioned how he came
to sit in a portrait on a gallery wall;
to her not strange for she knew his name,
glanced at him, recognised despite the frame
that spanned his upper torso.
Thus in the garden of common sense
sat a question raised, with reason absent
of explanation how a young girl’s eyes
bridged the gap of shadowed recollection
that had no concept in adult reality.
She could not see how an adult’s sight
was not hers, or how so diminished
their perception lost in adult thought,
in adult structures that lost the view
of realities that were not theirs.
Erin knew the portrait, his face so fine
as the day she met him in the farm confine,
fenced but free, he roamed at will
and she stroked his neck in youthful thrill
as he looked her down, and she looked up
for they shared the words, unspoken perhaps
but crossing the silence of the species gap
it was a life-long bond.
And have we lost the elemental shift
of seeing as adults, without the gift?
That sits so easily in a younger mind,
for she questioned not her present view
the portrait was her friend.
Don Magee
Beauty and the Beast
A model of perfection who can deny?
A kingdom for a horse man did cry
yet allow me please to have a say
Fred would rather be far away today
scudding off in joyful memory
his mane windblown and feathery
golden moments he often steals
in warm open autumn fields
dipping into mountain streams
meandering at will so it seems
wild has a beauty yet to be seen
in Fred reined in to an extreme
captured by an artist's brush
strokes so vivid he felt the rush
yet all I view is his desperation
as he looks away in quiet reflection
beauty and the beast needs review
someday man will come to rue
the day he harnessed beauty
its literal sense a tragedy.
Russila Moodley
Fred’s Ride
There’s a time for a quiet respect of appearance
to a man it belongs for the most part
but don’t seek a wall of interference
a nod to a horse doesn’t mean incoherence
the air of a stallion’s not from the head but the heart.
Can a story be told by the unspeakable?
Although it remains there inside
what seems inconceivable
it stays much redeemable
and Fred the horse relives his one ride.
A plow hitch doesn’t change what is done
or a painting won’t color the hard any softer
one dawn this horse was saddled to run
a hundred more and add his just one
a mount for a brave cavalry officer.
There’s a quality to the plain and simplicity
it applies to the life in due course
a name of Fred won’t garner publicity
but therein is the authenticity
a nod well deserved to a horse.
Tom Bowler
Friends forever
From a foal she reared him, called him just plain "Fred",
but he was the loveliest gelding,
even though he was cross Dutch bred.
Early every morning, she unbolted his stable door,
Fred would impatiently stomp his hoof, on the stable yard floor!
For Fred wanted to be off, cantering along a rough track,
running like the wind, with owner Sally, on his back!
Prancing, dancing, Fred would trot, muzzle and withers, growing wetter,
and he loved to run along the sands, nothing he would like better.
Then Fred would snort and whinny,
as Sally removed his tack,
as she lifted up his saddle, the steam would rise from his back!
He lived for those days of summer, when days were warm and carefree,
Sally and Fred's unbreakable bond, meant they lived together, harmoniously.
Fred, not fast enough for horse racing, worked in a riding stable.
He carried all sorts of people, those experienced and those less able.
He loved his work, he always felt so posh and loved and grand.
Trekking out along bridleways, and onto Welsh golden sands.
One day Sally, saw that Fred, sadly, had become suddenly lame.
Tears welled in her eyes, she knew it would never be the same...
She tried so very hard, to stop the laminitis spreading,
eventually Fred had to lie down, upon his stable straw bedding.
She called in the Vet one day, for one more final look,
"the kindest thing would be to put him to sleep," he said and Sally shook.
Poor Fred, she saw him, one last time, as tears filled in her eyes,
his dark, languid eyes consoled hers, as she kissed him a final goodbye.
Now Sally swears, that when she goes down, on Talacre beach,
she hears the sound of thundering hooves, just fading out of reach.
At Moon penny stables, early at sunrise in the morning,
just as the light glows bright and the brand new day is dawning,
she hears the stomping of a hoof, a snort and sweetest neigh,
she swears, that it's the ghost of Fred, come to visit her and play...
Laura Sanders
Grand National
Flailing hooves, wind in our hair,
up, up we go, over the chair!
Bechers brook, now far away,
just round that corner, "watch that grey!"
Feet pushed in stirrups, cling onto reins,
horses sprinting, stretched necks and manes.
Another jump, "hold on, I shout!"
Watching fellow jockeys fall about.
Horses tumble, coloured shirts flash by,
just a bit further, loose horses fly.
"C'mon Fred, not far to go, we'll beat them all,
run fast not slow!"
So Fred, he ran with all his strength,
he beat them all, by just a length!
Extra pats, trophy and watered in haste,
'cause he's won the great Grand National race!!
Laura Sanders
Fred
The workers trudged into the stoney farmyard
behind the horse and cart
kicking their muddy boots clean
soon to be in the kitchen
to devour farmer's wife's delicious dinner
it had been a long, hard, hot day
but the mood felt good
the hay was cut and saved.
Fred the horse was fed and watered
time to return to his field
for his well earned rest, to munch
his green grass and doze through nightfall
farmer's youngest daughter, Angela
was hoisted high onto his broad, strong back
this was not a chore for Angela, she loved Fred
she led him slowly from the yard.
The crowd sat round the extended table
eating, yapping and laughing
'till after some time farmer's wife asked,
"What's keeping Angela?"
Farmer stood up and headed for the door
muttering, "Won't be long!"
His pace accelerated
heading for the high field.
Climbing the gate, the shock struck him
Angela lay on the ground, motionless
as he raced towards her he noticed...
Fred standing over her, protecting her
the horse glanced at farmer, not twitching
farmer bent down to Angela to pick her up
her eyes opened, blinking and staring,
"Sorry Dad, I must have fallen off!"
Maurice Sherlock
Can a portrait speak?
by Don Magee
Celia and Conrad once again sat facing a painting in the gallery. Celia sat stiff, legs crossed, with an annoyed petulant look on her face.
"You have some explaining to do..." She exploded at Conrad before continuing, "The last time you dragged me here it was to look at a Sussex landscape. Okay, not too bad, perhaps your Cider with Rosie moment but this…"
She uncrossed and crossed her legs quickly as if that would convey her irritation.
"This is a horse…. more exactly part of a horse… mainly its head. Why on God’s earth do you think I want to look at a head, and neck of a horse?"
Conrad made as if to speak, but Celia shut him immediately.
"Further they, or the painter has called the horse Fred. Who does that? It’s a person, a human person's name… do not laugh or I will walkaway… why does anyone call a horse by a person's name, I mean why not like the racing people call it something like… oh like Kicks up Mud, Run like the wind, Brown head smiling?
By now nearby visitors were beginning to listen with accelerated amusement. Celia continued, "I’ve never been on a horse, have zero interest in equine things, animals, equiney people (she wasn’t sure that was a word but didn’t care). So why, why am I here?"
Conrad was used to the ebullient and verbose explosions of his wife. He explained, "You told me after the Sussex landscape, that you too often immersed yourself in what you see, that it becomes part of your reality. You called it a night wake… your words."
She smiled through some tears, "I have vivid impressionist dreams, and when I wake I feel that I have lived that dream… it’s overwhelming, and so utterly believable…" she hesitated. "It’s like I change into another person, almost another dimension beyond reality. Your Sussex landscape, well I dreamt it, and it almost became my next day reality. I sometimes have trouble disassociating… it scares me. So given what I said, and what you know, why on earth do you drag me, oh yes by deception, here to look at a horse’s head?"
Conrad began to speak, but she held up her hand, pursed her lips, and with an urgent tearfulness stated, "I do not want a reality with a horse in it, and further, a painting of a horse. Are you mental? Is time turning you into some kind of kinky weirdo? And let’s get real….calling a horse Fred…. I will say it again call it Polo mint head. You know Conrad If you mention to our friends that we looked at Fred, they would assume a human, and when you explained you may well lose them as friends given your penchant for strange views, and explanations."
She pondered some more, then laughingly stated, "I would rather look at a Picasso version of a horse, at least I wouldn’t have a clue what sort of disembodied maelstrom of a horse’s anatomy he would paint."
At last Conrad took his chance to speak. "Come on Celia get real, at least you see a proper horse not some… well Picasso had some very strange perceptions on what, and how to paint people, or anything come to that… well that’s my view." He continued in the absence of her interrupting, ‘I thought that a completely different subject matter, not a landscape impressionist style, or portrait… well I thought it would calm your reality thoughts, but perhaps I didn’t think enough."
Suddenly, a little girl wedged herself between her parents. Erin looked from one parent to the other, smiled contentedly, looked forward, and said, "Hello Fred."
Celia and Conrad sat bolt upright, a look on both faces of utter bewilderment, and, to be honest, intense consternation.
"Fred looks happy," Erin said clapping her small hands. "Grandma’s in the other picture room… well I think she is."
Celia now fairly distraught, turned to Erin, "How did you know… why did you call the painting… the horse’s head Fred?"
Erin smile demurely, puzzled at why her mum would ask such an obvious question. "I met Fred at Donal’s farm…. Grandpa took me to see the horses. I recognised Fred in the painting. He’s very big… I stroked him, and he talked to me, well snorted really but I understood what he meant."
Celia managed to close her gaping mouth, "Erin you are five years old…. horse’s do not talk, they all look the same… big heads, brown, black or whatever, and how can you understand a snort?"
Conrad was blinking in utter confusion.
"Of course you can understand a snort… and yes Mum I recognised Fred… look there," she pointed at his head. "He can see me, and it’s his eyes.." By now Erin was getting fidgety, "and yes Mum, he may not speak to you, but he does to me."
And thus Celia realised that her daughter had inherited her impressionist dream reality syndrome, and life was about to change. How poignant the moment that sits in the sea of unexpectedness, and where come the slings and arrows of unseasoned assault. Their lives would change, at first with trepidation, but long term, as Erin grew to womanhood, an overwhelming fulfilment would suffuse their middle years.
Erin’s impression
And the small girl saw a friend in view
recognised, not questioned how he came
to sit in a portrait on a gallery wall;
to her not strange for she knew his name,
glanced at him, recognised despite the frame
that spanned his upper torso.
Thus in the garden of common sense
sat a question raised, with reason absent
of explanation how a young girl’s eyes
bridged the gap of shadowed recollection
that had no concept in adult reality.
She could not see how an adult’s sight
was not hers, or how so diminished
their perception lost in adult thought,
in adult structures that lost the view
of realities that were not theirs.
Erin knew the portrait, his face so fine
as the day she met him in the farm confine,
fenced but free, he roamed at will
and she stroked his neck in youthful thrill
as he looked her down, and she looked up
for they shared the words, unspoken perhaps
but crossing the silence of the species gap
it was a life-long bond.
And have we lost the elemental shift
of seeing as adults, without the gift?
That sits so easily in a younger mind,
for she questioned not her present view
the portrait was her friend.
Don Magee
Beauty and the Beast
A model of perfection who can deny?
A kingdom for a horse man did cry
yet allow me please to have a say
Fred would rather be far away today
scudding off in joyful memory
his mane windblown and feathery
golden moments he often steals
in warm open autumn fields
dipping into mountain streams
meandering at will so it seems
wild has a beauty yet to be seen
in Fred reined in to an extreme
captured by an artist's brush
strokes so vivid he felt the rush
yet all I view is his desperation
as he looks away in quiet reflection
beauty and the beast needs review
someday man will come to rue
the day he harnessed beauty
its literal sense a tragedy.
Russila Moodley
Fred’s Ride
There’s a time for a quiet respect of appearance
to a man it belongs for the most part
but don’t seek a wall of interference
a nod to a horse doesn’t mean incoherence
the air of a stallion’s not from the head but the heart.
Can a story be told by the unspeakable?
Although it remains there inside
what seems inconceivable
it stays much redeemable
and Fred the horse relives his one ride.
A plow hitch doesn’t change what is done
or a painting won’t color the hard any softer
one dawn this horse was saddled to run
a hundred more and add his just one
a mount for a brave cavalry officer.
There’s a quality to the plain and simplicity
it applies to the life in due course
a name of Fred won’t garner publicity
but therein is the authenticity
a nod well deserved to a horse.
Tom Bowler
Friends forever
From a foal she reared him, called him just plain "Fred",
but he was the loveliest gelding,
even though he was cross Dutch bred.
Early every morning, she unbolted his stable door,
Fred would impatiently stomp his hoof, on the stable yard floor!
For Fred wanted to be off, cantering along a rough track,
running like the wind, with owner Sally, on his back!
Prancing, dancing, Fred would trot, muzzle and withers, growing wetter,
and he loved to run along the sands, nothing he would like better.
Then Fred would snort and whinny,
as Sally removed his tack,
as she lifted up his saddle, the steam would rise from his back!
He lived for those days of summer, when days were warm and carefree,
Sally and Fred's unbreakable bond, meant they lived together, harmoniously.
Fred, not fast enough for horse racing, worked in a riding stable.
He carried all sorts of people, those experienced and those less able.
He loved his work, he always felt so posh and loved and grand.
Trekking out along bridleways, and onto Welsh golden sands.
One day Sally, saw that Fred, sadly, had become suddenly lame.
Tears welled in her eyes, she knew it would never be the same...
She tried so very hard, to stop the laminitis spreading,
eventually Fred had to lie down, upon his stable straw bedding.
She called in the Vet one day, for one more final look,
"the kindest thing would be to put him to sleep," he said and Sally shook.
Poor Fred, she saw him, one last time, as tears filled in her eyes,
his dark, languid eyes consoled hers, as she kissed him a final goodbye.
Now Sally swears, that when she goes down, on Talacre beach,
she hears the sound of thundering hooves, just fading out of reach.
At Moon penny stables, early at sunrise in the morning,
just as the light glows bright and the brand new day is dawning,
she hears the stomping of a hoof, a snort and sweetest neigh,
she swears, that it's the ghost of Fred, come to visit her and play...
Laura Sanders
Grand National
Flailing hooves, wind in our hair,
up, up we go, over the chair!
Bechers brook, now far away,
just round that corner, "watch that grey!"
Feet pushed in stirrups, cling onto reins,
horses sprinting, stretched necks and manes.
Another jump, "hold on, I shout!"
Watching fellow jockeys fall about.
Horses tumble, coloured shirts flash by,
just a bit further, loose horses fly.
"C'mon Fred, not far to go, we'll beat them all,
run fast not slow!"
So Fred, he ran with all his strength,
he beat them all, by just a length!
Extra pats, trophy and watered in haste,
'cause he's won the great Grand National race!!
Laura Sanders
July 12, 2023
The Pinnacles, Dorset by Caz Scott
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
The Pinnacles bring memories
by Don Magee)
‘No, no, I’m not going there on holiday, or any other excuse… stop pressuring me.’ Saoirse was nearly in tears as she shook her head pointedly.
‘I’m not pressuring you… I thought you would like the Jurassic’ly things that you love… digging for fossils... God this is difficult.’
Owen Tudor was a kind, considerate man who had met Saoirse many years ago at line dancing, despite the fact that physical contact at line dancing was not part of the concept i.e. you dance in a line separated by step space.
‘I’m not going, and that’s final… and what is Jurassic'ly? it’s not a word you idiot,’ she retorted staring through the pub window.
‘Have you ever visited Dorset?’ he modulated.
‘Yes’
‘Oh, did something happen... an accident, incident... something to perturb you?’
‘No accident, no incident… well perhaps, maybe… I don’t want to talk about it.’ She was adamant to the point of anger.
Over drinks he prodded, she refused to elaborate, he circumvented the subject to bring it back as another question.
He pondered why she was so conclusively inconclusive. ‘So are you against holidays?’
‘Joseph, Mary, Jesus and the little donkey, don’t you ever give up?’
He smiled, ‘you stole that expression from a TV programme.’
She demurred, ’You want the truth, so here it is.’ His smile faded, and a sad, sombre look drew softened patterns on her face.
‘When in ini I visited Dorset with friends, near the Pinnacles… we could see them nearby. We walked the beach, fossil hunting. Suddenly a side of the cliff collapsed near our exit approach… no one was hurt, but we could not see how to get off the beach.’ She paused, a silence rippling through the air.
‘And the tide was coming in, and we started to panic…. it all got a bit frantic… we were running around like quarantined kittens.
‘The tide was coming in,’ he repeated, ‘you know that big stretch of water, you can’t miss it… it’s right by your side… didn’t you cater for the tidal movement?’
‘Oh shut up, smart arse. Anyway, we phoned emergency services… they responded to our call. And here’s where the embarrassment took on a whole new dimension. For weeks I’d angled for a local boy, we circled each other at dances, and the pub. I wanted him to ask me out.’ By now Saoirse was
close to tears. ‘Well he turned up with the emergency services, an Adonis, like a gladiator with his yellow helmet and rescue kit. Here was I… oh yes we tried to clamber over the cliff fall, but it was dirty, wet and muddy…. anyway I stood before him covered in dirt and mud, my mascara had run down my face with the tears, my nose was full of mucus…. and here he was looking at me...’ she started to smile through tears.
Owen grimaced, ‘And what happened?’
‘He looked at me amused, and winked. I never saw or heard from him again, so yes the Pinnacles and Dorset are off the table.’
Owen’s face took on a new meaning, ‘Well mucus nose and streaky face besides…. Saoirse O’Keefe will you marry me?’
Her freckled face, the curious lines around her mouth and eyes sparkled. ‘So a Welsh boy is asking an Irish girl to marry him. Your answer’, she paused for effect ‘is YES so long as you never insist or bring me to the Dorset Pinnacles.’
Owen carried a small copy of the painting in his wallet for years. Such memories, as he took it out and looked on special occasions.
Owen and Saoirse
(How Dorset Pinnacles reconciled two minds)
She was born of an age where embarrassment came
as a sword thrust hurt, attendant shame,
experience yet to bring sheltered calm
for life is a journey, so sweet the balm
that would become her in future years
and comfort sweep away those tears
of youth’s regret.
And thus comes happiness from failures past
oh how we stagger when new the cast
of fresh endeavours, new fashioned shape
pointing a direction, as a passion escape,
should love come crashing into a journey still
of unfilled aspects as yet to explore.
and the question posed, but seldom asked
what is love, is there a reckoning tasked?
To answer the question, perhaps foretell
all that is needed is that quiet interval.
Epilogue
'Tis strange the consequence of memories past
from splintered rocks as sentinels cast
lean and leaning in silent height;
her trauma displaced by summers bright
salvationary warmth of events explained
that was her beach adventure.
Don Magee
The Pinnacles
As a red sun sets, beneath late
evening black night clouds,
a summer sea mist, rises.
Beyond the cliffs
Old Harry and his friends
unhurried, disappear from view.
A disorientated seabird,
a busy sea, the only sounds
as each wave uncurls to slap the shore.
The thick wrack of unwashed seaweed
fills the air; a throat snatching
dank brown smell.
Dawn slowly pales the leaden sky,
the sea mist quietly thins.
Grass tufted, first to reappear.
Old Harry.
Then the pinnacle.
Then the Stack.
The dank brown smell of the night
trapped by mist has tainted each.
A miscellany of shapes
confuse the eye.
Mary Buchan
Sense and Sensibility
Projection of power with humility
the most sincere display of dignity
nature stands tall in displaying truth
woe to man for failing to follow suit.
When he is stripped bare and exposed
to the elements he is fiercely opposed
ranting and raving as the tides turn
cursing his fate on a blessed sojourn.
Lacking grace dignity and decorum
becoming a child throwing a tantrum
a far cry from pinnacles of tranquility
overriding foolish notions of majesty.
Weathering literal storms that blow
rewarded with the grace of glow
the resplendence of dusk and dawn
blessing creation at every turn.
Standing in deep waters they know
life is in constant ebb and flow.
Reflecting on life’s breadth and depth
knowing nothing in stone is ever set.
Saluting celestial bodies in the skies
reigniting passion with the stars
pinnacles rise and fall with equanimity
due to measured sense and sensibility.
Russila Moodley
The pinnacles near Old Harry Rocks
Craggy, old Harry rocks,
nearby shelters, a stump and stack.
Weathered by coastal winds,
sea erosion, that violently attacks...
Left, a shark's fin jutting out,
from a rough, eddied sea
and old man, Harry's stumpy leg,
for all visitors, to see.
A Jurassic limestone coast,
with iconic scenery.
Can fire the imagination,
so very vividly.
The "fin"- a prehistoric monster,
floating silently by,
towers above aqua, rippling water,
reflecting blue-grey sky.
The "stump", a high patterned criss-cross
of green, blue and white.
Embedded seashells, in chalk,
at a lofty height!
On calmer days, when the
sea is eerieily quiet and still,
kayakers paddle past the pinnacles,
for an atmospheric thrill.
Laura Sanders
Piano
You ripple longing
across the un-played
cadence of my life
un-silting that place
where colour pulses
where sweet pain drowns
spoken expression.
And when
your poignant notes
hold their teasing breath
my needs weep
in the luring depth
of your dark pauses
as if you are waiting
for me at the bottom
of a tranquil sea
then slowly I rise up
up gently like a coral-
spawn melody
through ebony-satin
shadows and shafts
of ivory sunlight.
Over and over
your rhythms sway
gentle oceans beneath
my scaled emotions
preventing me
from ever returning
to the ebb and froth
of shallows.
Jan Price
by Don Magee)
‘No, no, I’m not going there on holiday, or any other excuse… stop pressuring me.’ Saoirse was nearly in tears as she shook her head pointedly.
‘I’m not pressuring you… I thought you would like the Jurassic’ly things that you love… digging for fossils... God this is difficult.’
Owen Tudor was a kind, considerate man who had met Saoirse many years ago at line dancing, despite the fact that physical contact at line dancing was not part of the concept i.e. you dance in a line separated by step space.
‘I’m not going, and that’s final… and what is Jurassic'ly? it’s not a word you idiot,’ she retorted staring through the pub window.
‘Have you ever visited Dorset?’ he modulated.
‘Yes’
‘Oh, did something happen... an accident, incident... something to perturb you?’
‘No accident, no incident… well perhaps, maybe… I don’t want to talk about it.’ She was adamant to the point of anger.
Over drinks he prodded, she refused to elaborate, he circumvented the subject to bring it back as another question.
He pondered why she was so conclusively inconclusive. ‘So are you against holidays?’
‘Joseph, Mary, Jesus and the little donkey, don’t you ever give up?’
He smiled, ‘you stole that expression from a TV programme.’
She demurred, ’You want the truth, so here it is.’ His smile faded, and a sad, sombre look drew softened patterns on her face.
‘When in ini I visited Dorset with friends, near the Pinnacles… we could see them nearby. We walked the beach, fossil hunting. Suddenly a side of the cliff collapsed near our exit approach… no one was hurt, but we could not see how to get off the beach.’ She paused, a silence rippling through the air.
‘And the tide was coming in, and we started to panic…. it all got a bit frantic… we were running around like quarantined kittens.
‘The tide was coming in,’ he repeated, ‘you know that big stretch of water, you can’t miss it… it’s right by your side… didn’t you cater for the tidal movement?’
‘Oh shut up, smart arse. Anyway, we phoned emergency services… they responded to our call. And here’s where the embarrassment took on a whole new dimension. For weeks I’d angled for a local boy, we circled each other at dances, and the pub. I wanted him to ask me out.’ By now Saoirse was
close to tears. ‘Well he turned up with the emergency services, an Adonis, like a gladiator with his yellow helmet and rescue kit. Here was I… oh yes we tried to clamber over the cliff fall, but it was dirty, wet and muddy…. anyway I stood before him covered in dirt and mud, my mascara had run down my face with the tears, my nose was full of mucus…. and here he was looking at me...’ she started to smile through tears.
Owen grimaced, ‘And what happened?’
‘He looked at me amused, and winked. I never saw or heard from him again, so yes the Pinnacles and Dorset are off the table.’
Owen’s face took on a new meaning, ‘Well mucus nose and streaky face besides…. Saoirse O’Keefe will you marry me?’
Her freckled face, the curious lines around her mouth and eyes sparkled. ‘So a Welsh boy is asking an Irish girl to marry him. Your answer’, she paused for effect ‘is YES so long as you never insist or bring me to the Dorset Pinnacles.’
Owen carried a small copy of the painting in his wallet for years. Such memories, as he took it out and looked on special occasions.
Owen and Saoirse
(How Dorset Pinnacles reconciled two minds)
She was born of an age where embarrassment came
as a sword thrust hurt, attendant shame,
experience yet to bring sheltered calm
for life is a journey, so sweet the balm
that would become her in future years
and comfort sweep away those tears
of youth’s regret.
And thus comes happiness from failures past
oh how we stagger when new the cast
of fresh endeavours, new fashioned shape
pointing a direction, as a passion escape,
should love come crashing into a journey still
of unfilled aspects as yet to explore.
and the question posed, but seldom asked
what is love, is there a reckoning tasked?
To answer the question, perhaps foretell
all that is needed is that quiet interval.
Epilogue
'Tis strange the consequence of memories past
from splintered rocks as sentinels cast
lean and leaning in silent height;
her trauma displaced by summers bright
salvationary warmth of events explained
that was her beach adventure.
Don Magee
The Pinnacles
As a red sun sets, beneath late
evening black night clouds,
a summer sea mist, rises.
Beyond the cliffs
Old Harry and his friends
unhurried, disappear from view.
A disorientated seabird,
a busy sea, the only sounds
as each wave uncurls to slap the shore.
The thick wrack of unwashed seaweed
fills the air; a throat snatching
dank brown smell.
Dawn slowly pales the leaden sky,
the sea mist quietly thins.
Grass tufted, first to reappear.
Old Harry.
Then the pinnacle.
Then the Stack.
The dank brown smell of the night
trapped by mist has tainted each.
A miscellany of shapes
confuse the eye.
Mary Buchan
Sense and Sensibility
Projection of power with humility
the most sincere display of dignity
nature stands tall in displaying truth
woe to man for failing to follow suit.
When he is stripped bare and exposed
to the elements he is fiercely opposed
ranting and raving as the tides turn
cursing his fate on a blessed sojourn.
Lacking grace dignity and decorum
becoming a child throwing a tantrum
a far cry from pinnacles of tranquility
overriding foolish notions of majesty.
Weathering literal storms that blow
rewarded with the grace of glow
the resplendence of dusk and dawn
blessing creation at every turn.
Standing in deep waters they know
life is in constant ebb and flow.
Reflecting on life’s breadth and depth
knowing nothing in stone is ever set.
Saluting celestial bodies in the skies
reigniting passion with the stars
pinnacles rise and fall with equanimity
due to measured sense and sensibility.
Russila Moodley
The pinnacles near Old Harry Rocks
Craggy, old Harry rocks,
nearby shelters, a stump and stack.
Weathered by coastal winds,
sea erosion, that violently attacks...
Left, a shark's fin jutting out,
from a rough, eddied sea
and old man, Harry's stumpy leg,
for all visitors, to see.
A Jurassic limestone coast,
with iconic scenery.
Can fire the imagination,
so very vividly.
The "fin"- a prehistoric monster,
floating silently by,
towers above aqua, rippling water,
reflecting blue-grey sky.
The "stump", a high patterned criss-cross
of green, blue and white.
Embedded seashells, in chalk,
at a lofty height!
On calmer days, when the
sea is eerieily quiet and still,
kayakers paddle past the pinnacles,
for an atmospheric thrill.
Laura Sanders
Piano
You ripple longing
across the un-played
cadence of my life
un-silting that place
where colour pulses
where sweet pain drowns
spoken expression.
And when
your poignant notes
hold their teasing breath
my needs weep
in the luring depth
of your dark pauses
as if you are waiting
for me at the bottom
of a tranquil sea
then slowly I rise up
up gently like a coral-
spawn melody
through ebony-satin
shadows and shafts
of ivory sunlight.
Over and over
your rhythms sway
gentle oceans beneath
my scaled emotions
preventing me
from ever returning
to the ebb and froth
of shallows.
Jan Price
June 14, 2023
Memories...
Much of it relates to times spent over the years with our friends who died when their farmhouse burnt down.
The farm is now a flourishing, very rural campsite retreat.
Of walks around these ancient downs
sheep peacefully grazed,
no busy traffic sound,
dew ponds and orchids,
round headed rampion
the pride of Sussex,
insects and blue butterflies
frequented this ground.
On the top of a gorse bush
a stonechat would “tack”,
the song of the nightingale
burst forth from a wide, old hedge.
Warm summer days
in the valley below a small
red Ferguson tractor purred,
gently pulling the flail
for a clean cut of meadow hay,
laid in uniform rows,
the pheasant tedder tossed the crop,
left in bright sunshine for a day,
is it dry underneath and on the top?
Time to bale it in manageable lots,
tied tightly with twine,
secured with orange knots.
Buzzards and corvids
watching, not far away
waiting to pick up grubs
hidden under the hay.
The rough in the foreground,
offers shelter, food and more
for bees, moths and flies,
caterpillars would flourish,
sharp eyed predators
they may nourish.
Noisy chatter of finches
soon filled the air
as they feasted
on ripe seed heads
excitedly flitting here and there.
Margaret Hughes
Summer Days
by Donna Turner
(As well as the painting, this one was inspired by my eldest son who is leaving primary school to start high school in September. )
We used to spend hours lying in the long grass. The sways tickling, the sun warming our bare skin as we talked for hours. About what I don’t entirely remember, probably boys or pop groups or our annoying younger siblings. But we could be there all day. It felt private, like we’d
discovered a place no one had been before. Apart from the birds and the breeze we were the only noise puncturing the silence. Sometimes we’d bring a picnic, a sandwich from home, usually cheese, and a packet of crisps. A drink of water from a bottle once containing lemonade,
those were our reusable bottles, not like the ones we use today. Sometimes we’d bring a Walkman, one ear piece each, and listen to our favourite song of the moment. We once filled an entire blank tape with Roxette’s ‘It must have been love’ thanks to Pretty Woman. Recording our favourite songs from Dr Fox’s Pepsi Chart Show on a Sunday afternoon was one of our favourite things to do. That was our last summer before we were starting high school, leaving the safety of our small familiar primary school behind and embarking on the next stage of our adolescent years. Stories of kids getting their heads flushed down toilets and older pupils stealing lunch money fueled our fears of starting again. We were the big fish in our primary pond, the ones younger pupils looked up to, couldn’t wait to be. How were we going to cope being much smaller fish in a high school ocean?
We came up here most days that summer. Our parents not minding, maybe not even knowing where we escaped to. Of course, we didn’t have phones back then, just a watch and a time to be home by. We rode our bikes up here, it wasn’t far, we were lucky to live on the outskirts of town, the countryside on our doorstep. Although my later teenage self was not so grateful to live so remotely, my high school peers living closer to town seemed a much better option. That was when I swapped the long grass and rolling countryside views for the concrete pavements and abundance of high street shops. "Meet outside Woolworths at eleven," was the rule and with no mobile phones I just waited patiently for whoever I was meeting, to turn up. Most of the time they did and we’d go to HMV to browse the posters or Topshop to try on the latest fashion, but sometimes they didn’t and then it was a lonely bus ride home, wondering why they hadn’t come
and hoping we would still be friends at school on Monday.
I’ve come back to the spot to remember my old friend. Wishing I could rewind time to that summer when we were on the brink of growing up. Reminiscing the long lazy days spent lying in the long grass. The sways tickling my skin and awakening memories of that glorious summer...
A Sussex landscape
by Mary Buchan
(For three weeks the picture did nothing for me, then this morning, words started to flow. I nearly gave up!)
A Sussex hedgerow, of childhood memories. The dock’s flower stem in late summer is now stiff and upright with a crinkly brown seed
head. How many children of today, know of it’s palliative secret held in the large green leaves?
As children we had no fear of stinging nettles, because we knew of the cooling comfort, obtained from rubbing the juice of the dock leaf onto the itching red patch of sting, where each hair from around the edge of a nettle leaf had briefly brushed against
our skin.
Likewise, the sorrel, stiff and unbending with a spire of ripe seed. When pangs of hunger reminded us lunch time was still far away we would search for something simple to nibble. One of which, was the younger leaves of the sorrel. When chewed the piquant flavour was exciting. Enough really to make us feel even more hungry.
The desire for something sweet would lead to a search for the flowers of the red clover. Followed by the painstaking task, to gently pull each single floret to suck out the nectar.
The foamy, cream white of meadow sweet was taken for granted; every summer
always there. Bees busy making the most of the late crop of nectar and pollen, attracted by the sweet drowsy scent.
Now was the time to listen out for the sharp tinkle on the air of the small bell rung from an upstairs window. This could be heard from a whole field away. If not by us, by the dog, who was always with us. A quick run ensued, a scramble over the fence; help the dog, the weary plodded up the garden and into the kitchen.
To gaze at the view leads to thoughts and questions. What lies beyond those
gentle hills; what does the future hold for us?
The gold of ripe corn in those fields. With the approach of autumn, would the
next time we had time to stand and gaze, be dark brown? With the passing of time, slowly
turns the green of a new crop.
The reality of a night wake
by Don Magee
Celia and Conrad sat together, heads turned slightly, looking at the painting, turned as if not sure what angle to view it, and perhaps why they were assessing the work.
"But it’s only a painting," she said with that chilled voice reminiscent of a cold Champagne bottle popping.
"Yes, but you have to look into it, see what the artist saw in using the colours, the texture, the
light…." He stopped abruptly, as she, defiant, repeated, "It’s still only a painting."
"Dear God, Celia, do you have no soul? No temperament that allows beauty, a pageant of colour,
texture, enlightenment into that narrow veined head of yours?"
"So, insulting me is going to change the equation." Her voice tremulous, and sulking, caused others
to turn away.
"I am not insulting you… I’m trying to move you to another dimension in thinking, in appreciation of others efforts, but more importantly why artists need to express themselves..." He looked at her,
"Or not."
"Are you having your Cider with Rosie moment, bathing in, and letting nostalgia wash over you?
Meander in mind back to the early 1900s, a more rural time, gentler perhaps, outside the
maelstrom of today. Well are you?" She was grinning with that flickered affection curling around her
mouth.
"No, well perhaps, yes, probably, but that does not change the brevity of the argument."
"Okay," she muttered dispassionately, "let’s give it a whirl." She turned suddenly, "Do you know I suffer
from night wakes?"
"What in God’s name is a night wake?" He was interested but tried not to show it.
"I have vivid impressionist dreams, and when I wake I feel that I have lived that dream…. it’s
overwhelming, and so utterly believable, as if I have changed into another person, another
life… what you would call a dimension beyond reality."
"Does that frighten you?" he intoned.
"Oh no, no far from it. The trouble is, if I experience your painting as you describe it then I may dream
the scene, the tall foliage, that leaning tree, the distant fields bordered by… I know not but it matters
not, for I will discover that course, walk through the tall growth, brush the tops with searching palms
and fingers, feel its growth and passion. I will live in that tall splendour for the course of the night
wake, and come the sunrise believe I was there, moved there, sat in the burnt sky glaze, and I will
not be able to control my feelings; I may not disassociate, and that’s what frightens me."
"Is night wake a psychologically or medically recognised condition?" He was anxious and worried.
"I’ve no idea, and it’s irrelevant… I have them and that’s that."
He quietly nodded, "I envy you your gift, for truly you do see as the artist, far more than me."
With one last lingering look, they left the room.
Celia’s Journey
She saw the pulse switch of foliage shape
russets and browns, but could not escape
the transformation of her realised view
that she had been here, and that she knew
those folded hills, and leaning fields
with bordered wheat drifts, in silent yields
for harvest beneath a hazed burnt sky
as she posed the thought and gave to why
she knew this place again.
So she scattered her thoughts, reality too.
Counted the cost, as anxiety grew
to recognition in the Sussex scape
in the brushstroke walk, as her escape
from the tremors of current existence.
She had no answer to the question posed
for need she explain a feeling exposed
on the sunlight streams of that Sussex hill,
better to conclude her dreams state still
as comfort beyond all measure.
She smiled, transfused with the peace of mind
that sat upon her shoulders.
Don Magee
The body in the thicket
by Laura Sanders
Jakey ran ahead, sniffing in the thicket, nosing his way in. The hedgerow and verge was wildly overgrown. Not far away were the rolling hills, of the downs, an undulating area of much shorter grass, of colour worn lime-green. It looked a contrast to the tangled mess Jake was sniffing about in. Plenty of interesting smells, for his acute sense of smell nose, which looked like a black pompom on his longish snout. His long Lab's tail wagged profusely. He was in ecstasy. I threw an old stick, for him to retrieve but he soon lost interest, preferring the sniffing game and poking his way into the mass of plants. Sheep Sorrel, Nettles and other hedge plants. How high it had grown, I thought, with the advancement of summer sunlight. It had all gone quite berserk! Suddenly, Jakey started barking madly and looking back at me. He had gone quite far, into the vegetation and I knew he had found something...
"What is it boy?"
From where I was I could see a blue and white striped colour and as I neared Jake, an arm then a curled up hand. It was concealed by plants. I could make out a body, lying face down. A stripey long-sleeved t-shirt, and torn trousers. The trainers on the feet were scuffed and laces part undone. I could make out the ruffled hair and of a blonde-brown colour. Oh my god. The body was lifeless. I didn't touch it. I just froze, shuddered, for a few minutes, in shock, then came to my senses. I rolled the body over, unsure if they were female or male... I grabbed my phone froom my bag, tried to phone 999. I gasped and covered my mouth. I was sure they were dead. Flies were now buzzing around the corpse. I knew they were dead. Could they have collapsed though? Had they been killed, or murdered perhaps? How long had they lain there concealed by thicket? All these questions crowded my mind. As I got through to the call centre and asked for Police the pungent smell of grass filled my nostrils. Bird sounds were the only other noise apart from myself placing my phone back in my pocket. No one else around. I patted Jakey. He had found things before but never this... Our walk had come to an abrupt end. So too had the life of the person lying there - there in the thicket.
Flowers of West Sussex
Yarrow, Burnet, Saxifrage, Agrimony,
all should be left to grow, in harmony.
On West Sussex downs, a delight to see,
Eyebright, Maywort, White Bryony.
Yellow and brown centred Fleabane,
attracts powdery butterflies along the way.
All these flowers, bring joy to the eyes,
all compete, all are of different size.
Knapweed, Scabious, pollen for the bees,
a tapestry, of colours, all aim to please.
Now these flowers, are eventually, dying out,
"Grow them all back!" we must shout.
Adonis Blue, Hairstreak, Brown Argus, Chalk Hill blue,
Comma, Clouded yellow, of nature's palette hues.
On delicate wings, land on Sussex plants rare,
we must treasure these gems, with love and care.
Laura Sanders
Crossroads
I turn off the engine
park off-road.
How typical three other cars
fate-timed from conflicting distances
intersect and continue
in a straight line.
One passes me slip-streaming ripe wheat
speeding to the town I left behind.
I stare ahead to where it came from;
a distant wide-winged bird glides
towards a single tall tree on a slight hill.
I fumble to change short lens to long -
but only the tree remains.
My pulse returns to slow.
Are you still waiting inside the gate
for me to come home
to lead your straight-line life?
I look away to the right -
pine forest memories unclog my veins.
I hear the last of late spring’s water trickling
through the creek that released a shard
of bottle-blue that changed the sun
to bubbled moon. Angels praise God
in waterfall language in the sway above.
I see a robin red breast’s feather flutter
wind-stitched to a pine-scented needle
as if to say in a fragile way - I was here.
I turn to the left –
hear the city traffic slow and stop at 9am
and start for home at 5.30pm when it used to.
I hear my father’s everyday anger. I see
my mother’s eyes turn from sky-blue to quiet rain.
I don’t remember traveling with or without parents
from city to county to live with my grandmother.
She taught me how to pray, love birds and animals
humbly return wreath-ribbons to the local cemetery
surround me with peace and generosity
in a village where once people read by candlelight.
My love turns this car back to you.
Let me hold your hand in mine
lead you to amazements beyond the gate -
will you come?
Jan Price
Pencil Ponderer
You don't
need a writing prompt!
You are full of ideas
but I will offer you
a title -
how about... mmm
'Never Ask Me Again!'
The End
Jan Price
PS. Sending you a sketch for fun, Tim.
Winter and Spring (below)
Much of it relates to times spent over the years with our friends who died when their farmhouse burnt down.
The farm is now a flourishing, very rural campsite retreat.
Of walks around these ancient downs
sheep peacefully grazed,
no busy traffic sound,
dew ponds and orchids,
round headed rampion
the pride of Sussex,
insects and blue butterflies
frequented this ground.
On the top of a gorse bush
a stonechat would “tack”,
the song of the nightingale
burst forth from a wide, old hedge.
Warm summer days
in the valley below a small
red Ferguson tractor purred,
gently pulling the flail
for a clean cut of meadow hay,
laid in uniform rows,
the pheasant tedder tossed the crop,
left in bright sunshine for a day,
is it dry underneath and on the top?
Time to bale it in manageable lots,
tied tightly with twine,
secured with orange knots.
Buzzards and corvids
watching, not far away
waiting to pick up grubs
hidden under the hay.
The rough in the foreground,
offers shelter, food and more
for bees, moths and flies,
caterpillars would flourish,
sharp eyed predators
they may nourish.
Noisy chatter of finches
soon filled the air
as they feasted
on ripe seed heads
excitedly flitting here and there.
Margaret Hughes
Summer Days
by Donna Turner
(As well as the painting, this one was inspired by my eldest son who is leaving primary school to start high school in September. )
We used to spend hours lying in the long grass. The sways tickling, the sun warming our bare skin as we talked for hours. About what I don’t entirely remember, probably boys or pop groups or our annoying younger siblings. But we could be there all day. It felt private, like we’d
discovered a place no one had been before. Apart from the birds and the breeze we were the only noise puncturing the silence. Sometimes we’d bring a picnic, a sandwich from home, usually cheese, and a packet of crisps. A drink of water from a bottle once containing lemonade,
those were our reusable bottles, not like the ones we use today. Sometimes we’d bring a Walkman, one ear piece each, and listen to our favourite song of the moment. We once filled an entire blank tape with Roxette’s ‘It must have been love’ thanks to Pretty Woman. Recording our favourite songs from Dr Fox’s Pepsi Chart Show on a Sunday afternoon was one of our favourite things to do. That was our last summer before we were starting high school, leaving the safety of our small familiar primary school behind and embarking on the next stage of our adolescent years. Stories of kids getting their heads flushed down toilets and older pupils stealing lunch money fueled our fears of starting again. We were the big fish in our primary pond, the ones younger pupils looked up to, couldn’t wait to be. How were we going to cope being much smaller fish in a high school ocean?
We came up here most days that summer. Our parents not minding, maybe not even knowing where we escaped to. Of course, we didn’t have phones back then, just a watch and a time to be home by. We rode our bikes up here, it wasn’t far, we were lucky to live on the outskirts of town, the countryside on our doorstep. Although my later teenage self was not so grateful to live so remotely, my high school peers living closer to town seemed a much better option. That was when I swapped the long grass and rolling countryside views for the concrete pavements and abundance of high street shops. "Meet outside Woolworths at eleven," was the rule and with no mobile phones I just waited patiently for whoever I was meeting, to turn up. Most of the time they did and we’d go to HMV to browse the posters or Topshop to try on the latest fashion, but sometimes they didn’t and then it was a lonely bus ride home, wondering why they hadn’t come
and hoping we would still be friends at school on Monday.
I’ve come back to the spot to remember my old friend. Wishing I could rewind time to that summer when we were on the brink of growing up. Reminiscing the long lazy days spent lying in the long grass. The sways tickling my skin and awakening memories of that glorious summer...
A Sussex landscape
by Mary Buchan
(For three weeks the picture did nothing for me, then this morning, words started to flow. I nearly gave up!)
A Sussex hedgerow, of childhood memories. The dock’s flower stem in late summer is now stiff and upright with a crinkly brown seed
head. How many children of today, know of it’s palliative secret held in the large green leaves?
As children we had no fear of stinging nettles, because we knew of the cooling comfort, obtained from rubbing the juice of the dock leaf onto the itching red patch of sting, where each hair from around the edge of a nettle leaf had briefly brushed against
our skin.
Likewise, the sorrel, stiff and unbending with a spire of ripe seed. When pangs of hunger reminded us lunch time was still far away we would search for something simple to nibble. One of which, was the younger leaves of the sorrel. When chewed the piquant flavour was exciting. Enough really to make us feel even more hungry.
The desire for something sweet would lead to a search for the flowers of the red clover. Followed by the painstaking task, to gently pull each single floret to suck out the nectar.
The foamy, cream white of meadow sweet was taken for granted; every summer
always there. Bees busy making the most of the late crop of nectar and pollen, attracted by the sweet drowsy scent.
Now was the time to listen out for the sharp tinkle on the air of the small bell rung from an upstairs window. This could be heard from a whole field away. If not by us, by the dog, who was always with us. A quick run ensued, a scramble over the fence; help the dog, the weary plodded up the garden and into the kitchen.
To gaze at the view leads to thoughts and questions. What lies beyond those
gentle hills; what does the future hold for us?
The gold of ripe corn in those fields. With the approach of autumn, would the
next time we had time to stand and gaze, be dark brown? With the passing of time, slowly
turns the green of a new crop.
The reality of a night wake
by Don Magee
Celia and Conrad sat together, heads turned slightly, looking at the painting, turned as if not sure what angle to view it, and perhaps why they were assessing the work.
"But it’s only a painting," she said with that chilled voice reminiscent of a cold Champagne bottle popping.
"Yes, but you have to look into it, see what the artist saw in using the colours, the texture, the
light…." He stopped abruptly, as she, defiant, repeated, "It’s still only a painting."
"Dear God, Celia, do you have no soul? No temperament that allows beauty, a pageant of colour,
texture, enlightenment into that narrow veined head of yours?"
"So, insulting me is going to change the equation." Her voice tremulous, and sulking, caused others
to turn away.
"I am not insulting you… I’m trying to move you to another dimension in thinking, in appreciation of others efforts, but more importantly why artists need to express themselves..." He looked at her,
"Or not."
"Are you having your Cider with Rosie moment, bathing in, and letting nostalgia wash over you?
Meander in mind back to the early 1900s, a more rural time, gentler perhaps, outside the
maelstrom of today. Well are you?" She was grinning with that flickered affection curling around her
mouth.
"No, well perhaps, yes, probably, but that does not change the brevity of the argument."
"Okay," she muttered dispassionately, "let’s give it a whirl." She turned suddenly, "Do you know I suffer
from night wakes?"
"What in God’s name is a night wake?" He was interested but tried not to show it.
"I have vivid impressionist dreams, and when I wake I feel that I have lived that dream…. it’s
overwhelming, and so utterly believable, as if I have changed into another person, another
life… what you would call a dimension beyond reality."
"Does that frighten you?" he intoned.
"Oh no, no far from it. The trouble is, if I experience your painting as you describe it then I may dream
the scene, the tall foliage, that leaning tree, the distant fields bordered by… I know not but it matters
not, for I will discover that course, walk through the tall growth, brush the tops with searching palms
and fingers, feel its growth and passion. I will live in that tall splendour for the course of the night
wake, and come the sunrise believe I was there, moved there, sat in the burnt sky glaze, and I will
not be able to control my feelings; I may not disassociate, and that’s what frightens me."
"Is night wake a psychologically or medically recognised condition?" He was anxious and worried.
"I’ve no idea, and it’s irrelevant… I have them and that’s that."
He quietly nodded, "I envy you your gift, for truly you do see as the artist, far more than me."
With one last lingering look, they left the room.
Celia’s Journey
She saw the pulse switch of foliage shape
russets and browns, but could not escape
the transformation of her realised view
that she had been here, and that she knew
those folded hills, and leaning fields
with bordered wheat drifts, in silent yields
for harvest beneath a hazed burnt sky
as she posed the thought and gave to why
she knew this place again.
So she scattered her thoughts, reality too.
Counted the cost, as anxiety grew
to recognition in the Sussex scape
in the brushstroke walk, as her escape
from the tremors of current existence.
She had no answer to the question posed
for need she explain a feeling exposed
on the sunlight streams of that Sussex hill,
better to conclude her dreams state still
as comfort beyond all measure.
She smiled, transfused with the peace of mind
that sat upon her shoulders.
Don Magee
The body in the thicket
by Laura Sanders
Jakey ran ahead, sniffing in the thicket, nosing his way in. The hedgerow and verge was wildly overgrown. Not far away were the rolling hills, of the downs, an undulating area of much shorter grass, of colour worn lime-green. It looked a contrast to the tangled mess Jake was sniffing about in. Plenty of interesting smells, for his acute sense of smell nose, which looked like a black pompom on his longish snout. His long Lab's tail wagged profusely. He was in ecstasy. I threw an old stick, for him to retrieve but he soon lost interest, preferring the sniffing game and poking his way into the mass of plants. Sheep Sorrel, Nettles and other hedge plants. How high it had grown, I thought, with the advancement of summer sunlight. It had all gone quite berserk! Suddenly, Jakey started barking madly and looking back at me. He had gone quite far, into the vegetation and I knew he had found something...
"What is it boy?"
From where I was I could see a blue and white striped colour and as I neared Jake, an arm then a curled up hand. It was concealed by plants. I could make out a body, lying face down. A stripey long-sleeved t-shirt, and torn trousers. The trainers on the feet were scuffed and laces part undone. I could make out the ruffled hair and of a blonde-brown colour. Oh my god. The body was lifeless. I didn't touch it. I just froze, shuddered, for a few minutes, in shock, then came to my senses. I rolled the body over, unsure if they were female or male... I grabbed my phone froom my bag, tried to phone 999. I gasped and covered my mouth. I was sure they were dead. Flies were now buzzing around the corpse. I knew they were dead. Could they have collapsed though? Had they been killed, or murdered perhaps? How long had they lain there concealed by thicket? All these questions crowded my mind. As I got through to the call centre and asked for Police the pungent smell of grass filled my nostrils. Bird sounds were the only other noise apart from myself placing my phone back in my pocket. No one else around. I patted Jakey. He had found things before but never this... Our walk had come to an abrupt end. So too had the life of the person lying there - there in the thicket.
Flowers of West Sussex
Yarrow, Burnet, Saxifrage, Agrimony,
all should be left to grow, in harmony.
On West Sussex downs, a delight to see,
Eyebright, Maywort, White Bryony.
Yellow and brown centred Fleabane,
attracts powdery butterflies along the way.
All these flowers, bring joy to the eyes,
all compete, all are of different size.
Knapweed, Scabious, pollen for the bees,
a tapestry, of colours, all aim to please.
Now these flowers, are eventually, dying out,
"Grow them all back!" we must shout.
Adonis Blue, Hairstreak, Brown Argus, Chalk Hill blue,
Comma, Clouded yellow, of nature's palette hues.
On delicate wings, land on Sussex plants rare,
we must treasure these gems, with love and care.
Laura Sanders
Crossroads
I turn off the engine
park off-road.
How typical three other cars
fate-timed from conflicting distances
intersect and continue
in a straight line.
One passes me slip-streaming ripe wheat
speeding to the town I left behind.
I stare ahead to where it came from;
a distant wide-winged bird glides
towards a single tall tree on a slight hill.
I fumble to change short lens to long -
but only the tree remains.
My pulse returns to slow.
Are you still waiting inside the gate
for me to come home
to lead your straight-line life?
I look away to the right -
pine forest memories unclog my veins.
I hear the last of late spring’s water trickling
through the creek that released a shard
of bottle-blue that changed the sun
to bubbled moon. Angels praise God
in waterfall language in the sway above.
I see a robin red breast’s feather flutter
wind-stitched to a pine-scented needle
as if to say in a fragile way - I was here.
I turn to the left –
hear the city traffic slow and stop at 9am
and start for home at 5.30pm when it used to.
I hear my father’s everyday anger. I see
my mother’s eyes turn from sky-blue to quiet rain.
I don’t remember traveling with or without parents
from city to county to live with my grandmother.
She taught me how to pray, love birds and animals
humbly return wreath-ribbons to the local cemetery
surround me with peace and generosity
in a village where once people read by candlelight.
My love turns this car back to you.
Let me hold your hand in mine
lead you to amazements beyond the gate -
will you come?
Jan Price
Pencil Ponderer
You don't
need a writing prompt!
You are full of ideas
but I will offer you
a title -
how about... mmm
'Never Ask Me Again!'
The End
Jan Price
PS. Sending you a sketch for fun, Tim.
Winter and Spring (below)
May 5, 2023
Moon in the canopy, acrylics, 100 x 100cm by Andrew Halliday
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
The dilemma of Gadwin Thomas on viewing a painting
by Don Magee
Gadwin Thomas was a patriotic Welshman, born in Wales, and rooted in the practice of being Welsh. His dilemma, let's call it as it is, was that he had a dichotomy of needs; he liked solitude yet he craved, and welcomed social interactions. His dilemma was how to balance that need, also given his Welshness, how to factor that in. In his transient state he was comfortable with his own company; he had friends, both sexes, but he concluded he was his own best friend that, to most readers, is very bizarre, and downright weird. He loved solitary walks in the dark, a moonlight searching in woodland or pasture; here he was at ease, at peace but strangely uncomfortable for it did not satisfy the socialness of his need. He first thought that need needed not a specific form, that is human, or animal or media. Yet all and none gathered in the satisfaction of his dilemma, social solitude. Gadwin was sincere in his attitude but often met insincerity returned by those who could not think of who outside the box that was their sincerity, and were unmoved by imitations of mortality that came with viewing a painting. Gadwin surmised life (his life) is not only altered, changed, mutated (choose a phrase) by people, but what you see, what you hear, and very often what you visit. This trepidation came to a head one day when he saw a painting titled Moon in a canopy. He gazed, at first puzzled, then smiling as this brought to mind a recognised memory; that this moonscape conjured up how he was, thought, and what he was looking for of justification of who he was. Confused how this could come about, perhaps, but come about it did. And thus is the beauty of recognising yourself in another’s work. He had walked a path that was the painting, and it both disturbed, and enlightened him. And where is this tale going? He thought back to the painting he once saw, or did he? Was it a memory, or a memory of a memory? The painting was stark, brutal in some aspect, and summed up his need, that is sentient solitude but with an undercurrent of socialisation. Now you may think this is stretching imagery, and imagination too far, but that would be to think as you do, and not Gadwin. So one dusk filled evening he opened a Merlot wine, shouldered his angst and wrote a poem, which surprised him as he was seldom inclined to verse. And in the conclusion; breathe, breathe Gadwin for you are not alone in your mental perturbation, neither are you mad, bad, or socialised strange. Normality peeks from your verse.
The poem
Reflection on a painting
Gadwin walked the long path dark,
stencilled branches in brutal form
as sharpened teeth in a winter storm
shadowed in sullen coloured dusk
with moon struck glitter through bonded husk
that was the tree brush silence.
So bitter sweet in this tempered aspect
and who to meet, and who to greet
come hooting owls and scuttled sounds
beneath the canopy’s darkened floor.
And what to make of this folded scene?
In drizzled mist, a bitter dream
floating about as a cautioned thought
so eager once, but now not sought
in a deafened night time sky.
Breathe, breathe came the whisper in Gadwin's ear
and thus he stilled, and calmed his nerves
as comfort swallowed him, not to fear
but peace in short gaze, as silent curves
above him in that sheltered glade.
Don Magee
The Other Side
Mangled branches in clear view
the moon peeping through
a lone wolf howling long
gifting darkness with song
from the emptiness of a soul
a great longing to be whole
resonating with the dark side
of the moon and the great divide
you feel it too in flesh and bone
why else do beings feel alone?
This aching void deep within
feel it and let the healing begin
for the restless waves we are
from a source so very far
calmed by a moon oh so full
save for the pain of the pull.
Russila Moodley
The tree and the moon
The full moon on her journey through the sky is visible between the branches and leaves of the sycamore tree. Her golden light comes and goes from behind the slow moving summer night clouds. A tawny owl hardly visible on his favourite bough perches, his back to the comforting bole of the tree. His round face, eyes wide open, constantly turns from side to side as he listens for the movement of tiny claws and squeaks from the leaf debris beneath the tree. The nightjar is quietly resting after his first frantic flight of the darkening night. Snug in a slight dip along his favourite branch, he is hardly noticeable. The nightjar flies with his large beak wide open, trawling the air catching the first unwary moths and beetles to take to the wing.
As the dark deepens they will both take to the air again, their powerful wings silently beating the air. Always alert to swoop on unsuspecting ready meals - the nightjar, wide winged across the sky, calling “Chi-chi” occasionally to his mate. The tawny owl skims the grass, alert for the slightest rustle, prepared to dive, talons spread ready to grasp any a small scared wriggling rodent. After a successful catch he perches on a fence post and “Hoots” to his mate. The many other tenants of the tree ignore the owl and the nightjar at their peril. To stay alive they must remain tightly hidden. Their time comes with dawn and the rising of the sun. The moon having played her part, unnoticed, quietly disappears from the sky.
Mary Buchan
"I have seen the nightjar just as I describe," says Mary. "Late on a summer's night waiting for free range hens to go to roost."
Love is not a full moon in a tropical sky
I found myself
when I was not looking,
that person I should
like to be,
inspired by actions,
people, places,
kinder,
braver,
more beautiful,
than at first they seemed.
I found myself
when I was not looking,
along a path
I had not tried,
happiness,
more than a single
brick,
love more than a
full moon in a
tropical sky.
Sharon Webster
The night time moon
The night-time shiny moon captivates, as it glows,
draws me to look, as out of it, bright light flows.
Illuminates the paths, for creeping fox, hooting owls.
Even through dark branches, it aids all, on nightly prowls.
Natural torch and I think, the most beautiful celestial sphere.
When it shines down, then I no longer feel fear.
How lovely, is the face of the man in the moon -
laughing at us all, until he fades away too soon.
Sister sun rises, but where does the moon go?
Guess the stars in space realize, but me, I just don't know.
Laura Sanders
The haunted woods
A coven of witches are not far away,
I hear them chant, at the close of the day.
In the dark, dark woods, where lost souls live,
solemn and creepy, trees bleed and give.
A murk lingers, as I hear their shrill calls,
where toadstools thrive and ghost shadows fall.
Around, they dance, on damp leaf litter.
The spirits come out, to do a nocturnal flitter.
Moonlight wraps around, a glow through the trees,
my spirit is imprisoned, no longer set free.
I fight against their spell, I enter the clearing,
alone in the woods, the hags, I'm still fearing.
Laura Sanders
by Don Magee
Gadwin Thomas was a patriotic Welshman, born in Wales, and rooted in the practice of being Welsh. His dilemma, let's call it as it is, was that he had a dichotomy of needs; he liked solitude yet he craved, and welcomed social interactions. His dilemma was how to balance that need, also given his Welshness, how to factor that in. In his transient state he was comfortable with his own company; he had friends, both sexes, but he concluded he was his own best friend that, to most readers, is very bizarre, and downright weird. He loved solitary walks in the dark, a moonlight searching in woodland or pasture; here he was at ease, at peace but strangely uncomfortable for it did not satisfy the socialness of his need. He first thought that need needed not a specific form, that is human, or animal or media. Yet all and none gathered in the satisfaction of his dilemma, social solitude. Gadwin was sincere in his attitude but often met insincerity returned by those who could not think of who outside the box that was their sincerity, and were unmoved by imitations of mortality that came with viewing a painting. Gadwin surmised life (his life) is not only altered, changed, mutated (choose a phrase) by people, but what you see, what you hear, and very often what you visit. This trepidation came to a head one day when he saw a painting titled Moon in a canopy. He gazed, at first puzzled, then smiling as this brought to mind a recognised memory; that this moonscape conjured up how he was, thought, and what he was looking for of justification of who he was. Confused how this could come about, perhaps, but come about it did. And thus is the beauty of recognising yourself in another’s work. He had walked a path that was the painting, and it both disturbed, and enlightened him. And where is this tale going? He thought back to the painting he once saw, or did he? Was it a memory, or a memory of a memory? The painting was stark, brutal in some aspect, and summed up his need, that is sentient solitude but with an undercurrent of socialisation. Now you may think this is stretching imagery, and imagination too far, but that would be to think as you do, and not Gadwin. So one dusk filled evening he opened a Merlot wine, shouldered his angst and wrote a poem, which surprised him as he was seldom inclined to verse. And in the conclusion; breathe, breathe Gadwin for you are not alone in your mental perturbation, neither are you mad, bad, or socialised strange. Normality peeks from your verse.
The poem
Reflection on a painting
Gadwin walked the long path dark,
stencilled branches in brutal form
as sharpened teeth in a winter storm
shadowed in sullen coloured dusk
with moon struck glitter through bonded husk
that was the tree brush silence.
So bitter sweet in this tempered aspect
and who to meet, and who to greet
come hooting owls and scuttled sounds
beneath the canopy’s darkened floor.
And what to make of this folded scene?
In drizzled mist, a bitter dream
floating about as a cautioned thought
so eager once, but now not sought
in a deafened night time sky.
Breathe, breathe came the whisper in Gadwin's ear
and thus he stilled, and calmed his nerves
as comfort swallowed him, not to fear
but peace in short gaze, as silent curves
above him in that sheltered glade.
Don Magee
The Other Side
Mangled branches in clear view
the moon peeping through
a lone wolf howling long
gifting darkness with song
from the emptiness of a soul
a great longing to be whole
resonating with the dark side
of the moon and the great divide
you feel it too in flesh and bone
why else do beings feel alone?
This aching void deep within
feel it and let the healing begin
for the restless waves we are
from a source so very far
calmed by a moon oh so full
save for the pain of the pull.
Russila Moodley
The tree and the moon
The full moon on her journey through the sky is visible between the branches and leaves of the sycamore tree. Her golden light comes and goes from behind the slow moving summer night clouds. A tawny owl hardly visible on his favourite bough perches, his back to the comforting bole of the tree. His round face, eyes wide open, constantly turns from side to side as he listens for the movement of tiny claws and squeaks from the leaf debris beneath the tree. The nightjar is quietly resting after his first frantic flight of the darkening night. Snug in a slight dip along his favourite branch, he is hardly noticeable. The nightjar flies with his large beak wide open, trawling the air catching the first unwary moths and beetles to take to the wing.
As the dark deepens they will both take to the air again, their powerful wings silently beating the air. Always alert to swoop on unsuspecting ready meals - the nightjar, wide winged across the sky, calling “Chi-chi” occasionally to his mate. The tawny owl skims the grass, alert for the slightest rustle, prepared to dive, talons spread ready to grasp any a small scared wriggling rodent. After a successful catch he perches on a fence post and “Hoots” to his mate. The many other tenants of the tree ignore the owl and the nightjar at their peril. To stay alive they must remain tightly hidden. Their time comes with dawn and the rising of the sun. The moon having played her part, unnoticed, quietly disappears from the sky.
Mary Buchan
"I have seen the nightjar just as I describe," says Mary. "Late on a summer's night waiting for free range hens to go to roost."
Love is not a full moon in a tropical sky
I found myself
when I was not looking,
that person I should
like to be,
inspired by actions,
people, places,
kinder,
braver,
more beautiful,
than at first they seemed.
I found myself
when I was not looking,
along a path
I had not tried,
happiness,
more than a single
brick,
love more than a
full moon in a
tropical sky.
Sharon Webster
The night time moon
The night-time shiny moon captivates, as it glows,
draws me to look, as out of it, bright light flows.
Illuminates the paths, for creeping fox, hooting owls.
Even through dark branches, it aids all, on nightly prowls.
Natural torch and I think, the most beautiful celestial sphere.
When it shines down, then I no longer feel fear.
How lovely, is the face of the man in the moon -
laughing at us all, until he fades away too soon.
Sister sun rises, but where does the moon go?
Guess the stars in space realize, but me, I just don't know.
Laura Sanders
The haunted woods
A coven of witches are not far away,
I hear them chant, at the close of the day.
In the dark, dark woods, where lost souls live,
solemn and creepy, trees bleed and give.
A murk lingers, as I hear their shrill calls,
where toadstools thrive and ghost shadows fall.
Around, they dance, on damp leaf litter.
The spirits come out, to do a nocturnal flitter.
Moonlight wraps around, a glow through the trees,
my spirit is imprisoned, no longer set free.
I fight against their spell, I enter the clearing,
alone in the woods, the hags, I'm still fearing.
Laura Sanders
April 2023
Urquhart Castle, Loch Ness, mounted print, 9.5x10.5in by Jonathan Wheeler
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Urquhart Castle
by Mary Buchan
August 1948. We arrived at Inverness station, early in the morning having travelled from King’s Cross on the overnight sleeper pulled by the Flying Scotsman. My companion, a cousin I had never met before. We were met by an uncle, never met before. He was driving us to his farm, some six miles north of Loch Ness. Waiting there for us my aunt, my father’s eldest sister Gwen with their boys Ian and Alistair; likewise never met before. They had returned to Scotland from India. Forced by India’s new independence to give up their Tea Plantation.
“Look, I think that must be him.”
“Hello, I am Nan.”
“Hello, I am Shirley.”
“Hello, pleased to see you. I am Uncle Mackie.”
Warm greetings and introductions swiftly made, we clambered into Mackie’s car with our luggage and set off for the farm.
The first part of the journey was along the north shore of Loch Ness. I set my eyes on the sun-tipped choppy waters of the Ness. Looking for one thing, one thing only, a glimpse of the much mentioned Loch Ness Monster. Nothing. Hard not to be a little disappointed.
As my uncle turned the car away from the loch I caught sight of a very aged and battle-scarred castle, still solid, intriguing and very beautiful in the bright early morning sunshine.
“Look Shirley, a castle.”
“That’s Urquhart Castle,” Mackie chipped in. “We see it every time we drive to Inverness.”
Urquhart. The name itself, full of mystery and excitement. The castle stands on a small promontory at the entrance to Glen Urquhart. Here two rivers, the Renrick and the Coiltie run through the small town of Drumnadrochit, before joining the waters of the Ness. It is said the elusive Loch Ness Monster could possibly hide in the tunnels and dungeons of the castle.
In 1948 the castle was not yet open to the public. Sixty years were to pass before I set eyes on the castle again. This time I was being driven by my cousin Ian and his wife Lorraine with whom I was to stay. I had the merest glimpse of the castle through the trees on the far shore; looking very small from across a mile of the cold uninviting water of the Ness. Ian now lived in Foyers on the south shore of the Ness. On the second day of my visit Ian decided to return to the farm.
“Nan having you here is a good excuse to return to Kilmartin. I thought you would like to see again where we had such fun that summer you came to stay.”
“I would love to. What a good idea.”
Returning. not always a good idea. By the time we had made the long journey to Inverness then to Drumnadrochit so much had changed, not only the weather. Urquhart Castle sat forlorn, shrouded in the cold grey mist lying thick over the loch.
by Mary Buchan
August 1948. We arrived at Inverness station, early in the morning having travelled from King’s Cross on the overnight sleeper pulled by the Flying Scotsman. My companion, a cousin I had never met before. We were met by an uncle, never met before. He was driving us to his farm, some six miles north of Loch Ness. Waiting there for us my aunt, my father’s eldest sister Gwen with their boys Ian and Alistair; likewise never met before. They had returned to Scotland from India. Forced by India’s new independence to give up their Tea Plantation.
“Look, I think that must be him.”
“Hello, I am Nan.”
“Hello, I am Shirley.”
“Hello, pleased to see you. I am Uncle Mackie.”
Warm greetings and introductions swiftly made, we clambered into Mackie’s car with our luggage and set off for the farm.
The first part of the journey was along the north shore of Loch Ness. I set my eyes on the sun-tipped choppy waters of the Ness. Looking for one thing, one thing only, a glimpse of the much mentioned Loch Ness Monster. Nothing. Hard not to be a little disappointed.
As my uncle turned the car away from the loch I caught sight of a very aged and battle-scarred castle, still solid, intriguing and very beautiful in the bright early morning sunshine.
“Look Shirley, a castle.”
“That’s Urquhart Castle,” Mackie chipped in. “We see it every time we drive to Inverness.”
Urquhart. The name itself, full of mystery and excitement. The castle stands on a small promontory at the entrance to Glen Urquhart. Here two rivers, the Renrick and the Coiltie run through the small town of Drumnadrochit, before joining the waters of the Ness. It is said the elusive Loch Ness Monster could possibly hide in the tunnels and dungeons of the castle.
In 1948 the castle was not yet open to the public. Sixty years were to pass before I set eyes on the castle again. This time I was being driven by my cousin Ian and his wife Lorraine with whom I was to stay. I had the merest glimpse of the castle through the trees on the far shore; looking very small from across a mile of the cold uninviting water of the Ness. Ian now lived in Foyers on the south shore of the Ness. On the second day of my visit Ian decided to return to the farm.
“Nan having you here is a good excuse to return to Kilmartin. I thought you would like to see again where we had such fun that summer you came to stay.”
“I would love to. What a good idea.”
Returning. not always a good idea. By the time we had made the long journey to Inverness then to Drumnadrochit so much had changed, not only the weather. Urquhart Castle sat forlorn, shrouded in the cold grey mist lying thick over the loch.
