Every month a painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Writers are invited to submit a poem upto 30 lines or a story upto 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 13 prompt will be June 13 and so on.
The submissions will be published on this website and the best ones will feature in a forthcoming book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
Writers are invited to submit a poem upto 30 lines or a story upto 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 13 prompt will be June 13 and so on.
The submissions will be published on this website and the best ones will feature in a forthcoming book.
Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to tsaunderspubs@gmail.com
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September 16, 2022
This heavily textured silver bangle with 18ct gold detail has been handmade by Michele White RBSA
www.creativecoverage.co.uk The bangle comes from India where married women wear glass and metal bangles for good luck. The design on the bangle appears to be from the Indian subcontinent.
The bangle This bangle, unique in form, moulded to perfection; a fusion of precious metal, gleaming gold and muted silver, with a message embossed, only the wearer understands. This I give you my daughter, as you embrace motherhood. the symbol of good fortune, health and love; wear with pride. Keep safe for your child and generations after. Leela Gautam The Intricate gift The glistening silver edge of this gently curved band, decorated with ripples, patterns in the sand left by the ebb and flow of a restless sea. Secrets of rockpools refreshed by each tide, threads of silver and gold, tentacles that could infold morsels of food. Blades of seagrass, gold, in the sea bed, where marine creatures like seahorses may have bred. Shapes from hidden treasures buried in sea washed sand. Whorls of worm casts, hungry beaks have probed. Two small gold dots, keen eyes of a crab waiting to grab. Pearls from oysters. all decorate this band, Beautifully crafted in silver and gold, a work of art, a joy to behold. Margaret Hughes The bangle Whose wrist will this decorated bangle adorn, that can compliment the jeweller's artistry? Whose arm will provide the necessary backdrop to showcase this unique item of jewellery that enhances the pride and vanity of its wearer? Spare a thought though for the jeweller's vision and toil that made this possible. Roger Knight Celtic Princess Celtic Princess roaming in dark corridors of a hidden world, the sound of the sea beckoning, the echo of a voice calling from the other side. She was once someone's bride before the tower crumbled into Poseidon's domain; now the High Priestess calls through the wind and rain. Celtic Princess no longer recognisable when she moves like quicksilver through the ether, past the realms of pain in the stilted human game. She is swept up in the snow-storming prelude to infinity - make way for the subtle nuances of rebirth. Mary Cochrane The gift What have I done to deserve, so great a choice, of this splendid gift? A bangle with designs, so ornate, so patterned intricate, rich. Heavy and solid, oozing quality, made with skill and care. The gift I would like to show off to all, a gift to give, to share. Placed upon my arm, I suddenly feel worth, a million pounds! I need to visit my relatives and friends, with me, it will do the rounds! Lovingly made, with specialised craft, time taken to produce this gem. Presented to me, with appreciation, my love towers, above all men. He pays for me in fine gold and silver, I'm bought, I'm his, forever! It's better than fine foods, wines, holidays, a keepsake, in any weather! Happiness within me flows and security, a token of our love bound. In a single band of 18ct gold and silver, I hope true love, I've found! Laura Sanders An introduction to Alchemy by Susan Knight When Mr Grey took his place at the table he expected his brood of five, exuberant children to be silent and seated immediately as Mother served dinner. So he was greatly irritated by Sarah, his eldest, dancing around the room, waving her hand in the air. “What are you doing girl?” he bellowed causing Sarah to stop mid pirouette. “I’m admiring my present,” her tone was defiant. “Your present?” Mr Grey’s voice was stern, “show me!” Sarah extended her hand with a flourish to reveal a gleaming silver bangle inset with tiny flecks of gold. “It’s mine and I’m keeping it!” For a moment Mother stopped ladling out the stew, horrified at her daughter’s impudence. One of the younger children stifled a nervous laugh as Mr Grey grabbed his daughter's arm roughly, to get a closer look. The bangle was silver, but it was inlaid with gold detail. He was sure of it, he knew real gold when he saw it. Barely containing his excitement he lowered his voice "Where did you get that, daughter dearest?" Sarah sensed her Father’s change of mood and answered honestly, “At the cemetery, near grandmother’s grave. A man said he was a great admirer of her work in transmutation.” At this point Mother gasped out loud spilling stew all over the pristine tablecloth. Sarah continued, “he asked if the brooch I had on my coat was made of tin, when I said "yes" he unpinned it and held it tightly in his hand. When he opened his hand, the bangle was in his palm. He told me to be careful as he placed it on my wrist as it would still be warm. He then said I should follow my calling to the study of Alchemy. Which, Father, I intend to do as soon as I am able.” As Mother sank to the floor with an attack of the vapours, Sarah took her place at the table, sending Mr Grey a look of such steely determination that he was rendered speechless. August 15, 2022
Breton Maid, oil on canvas, 45 x 45cm by Bernie Moore RBSA
www.creativecoverage.co.uk The Red Farmhouse
by Nicky Clyne The Volkswagen beetled over the hill and down the next slope. The radio was playing The Young Ones by Cliff Richard. My brother and I were in the back with our mini suitcases. I had crayons, a colouring book and a jamboree bag. My brother had an Eagle magazine, and some spangles that had broken out of the packet and were rattling around, though he had eaten most of them on the ferry. Ahead, the road divided. My father brought the car to a halt, the tyres skidding on loose stones. Two women were in a field a little way off. The younger one had a white bonnet on her head, she was collecting some wild flowers. The older woman who could have been her grandmother was holding a wicker basket. They both wore dresses down to the ground and had aprons, once white, now streaked with earth. My father rolled down the car window and hot dusty air blew in. He turned off the engine and we could hear the noise of birds and distant traffic. “Morgen!” he said. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like “Morning”. The younger woman walked over to us, I noticed she had an uneven upper lip, like a pout. “Do you know the way to Le Valandre?” asked my father, moving his lips exaggeratedly. The young girl shook her head. The old woman didn’t move. Her face was dark brown and wrinkled from the sun and she looked angry. He repeated the sentence. The young woman shrugged her shoulders and said something to the older one. “They don’t understand,” said my Mother. “They damn well do,” said my Father. He started up the car. The throaty rattle of the engine meant we couldn’t hear what the older woman shouted at us. But as we drove away there was no doubt that she spat in our direction. “That’ll teach you to pretend to be German,” said my Mother with satisfaction. “One of these days your jokes will backfire.” As I turned to look back at the old woman I noticed the fingers were missing on one hand. Years later I went on holiday to Brittany with my French husband. We sat outside at a roadside café in the village of Le Mas Rouge. Sebastien went to buy a newspaper while I went up to the counter to pay the bill. I was shocked to see the young woman we had spoken to all tnhose years ago. She had the same lip. I didn’t show that I recognised her. When I got back to our table I whispered to Sebastien what I’d seen. He insisted on going back and talking to her. I felt mortified when I saw him mime a chopping movement with his hand. Sebastien came over. “Her grandmother lost her fingers in an agricultural accident. Regarding your Father, she said being in an occupied country wasn’t funny.” I felt I’d been in an occupied country all my life. The jokes weren’t funny. Three steps to freedom by Philippa Snell The room was dark in spite of the midday sun and its thousands of blinding reflections on the sea outside. The shutters were drawn, the door was closed and pipe smoke fought to mask the heavy smell of carbolic soap in the air. The fire crackled in the grate and she turned from the table and stooped to pick up the iron from the red hot coals using a thick woollen cloth. She put the cooler iron in its place and turned back towards the long table. “You’re my putain and you always will be” he said, through clenched teeth that gripped his smoking pipe, “you are my maid it’s the same thing.” He swigged, dribbling, from a stoneware flagon of cider then banged it on the table. A few splashes of the drink pearled on, then were absorbed by, the delicate fibres spread before him. She resumed her movements, channelling swiftly and carefully up and down the intricately webbed fabric with the hot and heavy iron. Three steps were necessary between the two ends of the table, the one by the fire the other by the door, where he sat. Three steps were the length of the cloth to be smoothed. “Just like your mother was my putain, I’m marrying your sister in a matter of minutes so hurry, will you ever finish pressing this veil?” She turned back to the fire and placed the cooled iron on the coals. As she lifted the hot iron she saw all of the blinding reflections of the sea at once before her eyes and heard her dead mother’s sobs. She swung round using the weight of the iron to propel herself, leaping the three steps towards the door before plunging the hot metal into the sweaty folds of the man’s face. She noticed the sweet smell of burned flesh rising above the smell of pipe smoke and soap as he writhed on the table, black and red splattering the fine white lacey weave. As she opened the door she raised her forearm to shield her eyes from the light and the stiffly ironed edge of her coiffe gently rubbed her skin - she smiled as she breathed in the fresh salty air. Breton Maid Breton Maid the girl with the blue eyed, perceptive gaze. You return my close scrutiny, with eyes unblinking solemn, serene. A look as penetrating, as that which my granddaughters fix on me should I dare to question them on what they do or where they go. They have with guidance, have their futures planned. Know what they wish for. Where their futures lie. Both are primed and ready to tackle their exams at the beginning of the September school term. Breton Maid I doubt you have heard of exams. Did you have desires, a future planned? You’ve had your skills passed to you by family and friends. In church with other girls, blending your voices in song. Beside your mother at the kitchen table; learnt to cook and bake on the wood fired range. Helped with the weekly wash; steaming, in the copper in the corner. Eager by candle light learnt to write, read and sew. Early to walk, feeding the chickens, collecting their eggs. In the field, herding the cows; milking on a three legged stool, to the rhythm and swish of her tail, head tucked to the warm flank of Daisy, your favourite golden brown cow. Setting her milk in a large shallow pan for the cream to rise. Next day, in the dairy slowly churn the cream into butter, to take with the spare eggs to sell at the market. With the turn of the year; new lambs, fresh cut grass to turn and turn again, while the sun turns it into hay. Follow the scythe, bundle the corn, tie; eight sheaves to a stook. Perhaps you hoped to help, teach in the school room; pass on your knowledge to the other girls and boys. Perhaps work as a maid in the neighbouring chateau. To be married, a distance too far to imagine. Mary Buchan Another Breton Maid He dressed me for this portrait with a high collar a coiffe that he borrowed an uncomfortable neck bandana I had to stare beyond his shoulder no smiling, no frowning - an apathy to create intrigue ...mystique be a Breton Maid, like the others. What you cannot see is ... my laceless, battered expensive sneakers my torn-thigh fashioned jeans my naked midriff, with pierced belly button my arms tattooed with snakes and memories my back pocket squared with mobile phone my ear-pieces hidden down my back my ten finger nails all in different colours. So you stare back at me be intrigued, be mystified but I am not what you think nobody is ... Maurice Sherlock Maid She works and serves all day she works and cleans at home at night she glances outside and wishes for freedom but until she can get her wings like a butterfly ahe remains like a sad lone caterpillar on the ground, tidying, following orders waiting to be set free. Kate Geoghegan Maid in Breton The Truss Was making a fuss Over fixing Breton Ooops, she meant Britain John FR Munro The Breton Maid And in her eye sat silence but a question there, a question held and in the balance of her mind came thought and doubt in equal kind. And has the angst of servitude wearied the chastity of her face where drawn the eyes bereft maybe of near future hope, but not forsake a chance that time will deliver more in sheltered climes. She gazed a mournful look but yet I saw a flame, a flame burnt strong; times passage dealt her solemn grace that carried the aspect of her soul, But there, I saw a lingering hope resilience sat her brow, for youth will persevere and find an answer to questions held in silent eyes. So sweet the sight her view may find near future yes, but patience more she needs to hold the body sway and gaze an optimism chance to ring those bells from shortened past. And soon her mouth will smoothly yield to careful smile, demure but yet where slumbers better times to come as fresh spring trickles through her door. Don Magee Brecon Maid That trip to Brecon was a dream; you and I in that old cottage on the hill, beside the stream; the stillest nights and warmest days, played out in a summer haze. Driving out in the afternoon or languishing in lush, green fields beneath a mesmerising moon in a vast sky of azure blue that bound me endlessly to you. The only threat to our happiness was in that ice-cold room upstairs, where I unmistakeably felt the presence of the maid who stood in dated clothes and solemn mood. Eventually I could not bear to lie in bed and tolerate the intensity of her stare. Before we left we took a look at the comments in the visitors'; book. All the usual compliments about the charming cottage and breath-taking environment, then came the cautions and other notes about the lonely, solemn ghost. I cannot take her from my memory, though thirty years have duly passed and left their mark upon me. I wonder if your mind has strayed to thoughts of me or the Brecon maid. Mary Cochrane Maid of Breton Leela researched the life of Eleanor of Brittany for this poem If I could peep into your soul, what secret will I find? Your perfect face, untouched by sun and wind, cannot efface or hide your sorrow. Your lips restrain a helpless cry. That single tear in your eye, tells a sad story, Of loss, abuse, abandonment. I can see you lie awake, not daring to close your eyes should sleep, capture nightmare dreams. It seems erring hands, dallied with your fate, twisted it for their own intention. Do not fear, in your veins pulse the blood of kings, soon, you will find a lasting peace. Not born to be the bride of man, your life will find a divine calling. Leela Gautam Fancy dress "Do I look convincing?" Sandra asks her mum. "It's a bit of a change to your normal attire, love," she replies. "You'll definitely stand out at the new year's party!" TA Saunders Maid of Breton Oh Maid of Breton, the miles of land and sea are no barrier for your love, calling to me and the strength of the hate of our kinsmen, pales against the power of our bond this godforsaken war, was not a fight of our making and will not keep us apart for we shall find a way to be re-united, as no hate or war, can part something so strong. Oh Maid of Breton, you came to me, in my hour of need, as I lay wounded you saved me from the killing fields and your countrymen’s swords you bandaged and nursed me, nourished my body and mind, to help me see that geography is no barrier to love, nor are politics or hateful words. Oh Maid of Breton, not the rage of the sea, nor the battles, will keep me from you for the love of my king and the love of my kin, I must now hide and even now, as I near your door, I must blend myself with your kin no war and no pride, no hate and futile fight shall keep me from your side. Oh Maid of Breton, you saved me, in so many ways oh Maid of Breton, I’ll love you, for all of my days oh Maid of Breton, you’re the proof, that love always pays oh Maid of Breton, I hope I live up to, your love and your grace. Nigel Dyer The face of a Breton girl How refreshing, a young lass looking directly at me not head down, searching an I-phone on a knee. Is she worried or frightened, it’s not easy to tell. Does she have an awkward question or sad story to share? Is it someone with time and a listening ear? She knows I won’t judge her, and I’ll always be there. Margaret Hughes At a clifftop café, Dinant Evening starts at 10pm in Brittany and by the time the girl in the hat announced the first entertainers, the sun was a blush on the Breton sky. In came the folk dance ensemble. They moved, but only just. Time had abbreviated them. You could see why a local dance unique to a single street would matter. Each stood with two assisting. The accordion erupted like flame, then lulled to a smoking candle of sound that matched the inching of the dance; perfect rhythm on the scale of a miniature chess set. A quarter turn of the feet, no more. The dancers’ fingers flexed a fraction out and back. You could imagine the fuller action of their youth could see where they had come from. The girl in the bretonne gazed a smile at them. Parfait. Philip Burton Breton Maid She stares out at you with those dark mournful eyes and almost expressionless face, as though stating what has been the result of her possibly austere, Calvanistic-like existence. I am left wondering what type of daily drudgery might have been her lot, that makes her so devoid of animation. Her iconic coiffe suggests a certain pride in identifying with her particular region, something that has been immortalized by the painters of the Pont-Aven school, notably Paul Gauguin. There must be something distinctive in their character and appearance that sets them apart from other regions of France, that this young maid is so emblematic of. Roger Knight Curiosity of Yesterday Staring at the picture, I think it’s me I see but is the woman staring back, the girl I used to be. Many years have passed me by, as I sit here and I dream about the things that I have heard, and things that I have seen. The eyes that glance and look at me, seem more tired than before the face is slowly morphing, it looks older to me I’m sure. Years move on, and time goes quick. Is that really me in there? I still can’t recognise that woman, with that blue eye silent stare. I still look on, deeper within, this shining still of time where no worlds can ever meet, and no clock is heard to chime. The minutes seem to last forever, as in this world I stay. Is this a painting or a secret place or a magic game to play? I still look on, as this woman, she still sits there with me I really cannot understand the reasons and what is meant to be. What does she want, and why is she here? I still can’t work it out. But she seems to know me, with that there is no doubt. Time moves on for all of us, we cannot stay young and free the past needs to stay where it belongs, for you and also me. But if you have a painting a bit like mine is here the present is a wrapped-up gift and the future isn’t one to fear. Jilly Bowling A loyal Breton maid Harbouring life's secrets, you can only stare out, mild, serene. Thoughts are fleeting, yours alone, yearned for, hopes and dreams. Tell me what you are thinking, as you calmly gaze, from a pretty, fresh, natural looking , innocent face. Trapped in servitude, to a French Lord, but still fairest of all maids. Do not fret - your Breton traditions, will never fray nor fade. You cannot tell us of your struggles, to keep your culture alive. Secretly, you oppose the French, fellow Bretons, by your side. But Pearl of Brittany, know your homeland is just as lovely as you. To your own people, you will always be a maid, loyal and true. Laura Sanders The Breton Maid Here I sit as you paint your picture of me I think of what it is that you see. Do you see the lines upon my face? Will they be emphasised, or would they fade? Do you see the love within my heart? Would you know why it's closed. Why I set it apart? The life. The love. The peace. The mess. The me. The you. The world. The stress. Do you see me sit here taut and tight? Would you know what wakes me in the night? Here I sit as you paint your picture of me I think of what you cannot see. Nicola Mortimer July 15, 2022
Sunflowers: You and Me
We sit here, you and me basking in the sun vibrant and colourful we are here to light up our space to brighten the mood our glow is a show of happiness we are told we symbolize loyalty and adoration but its more than that its hope and beauty a perfect peaceful restoration of what this world is truly about. Maurice Sherlock The Witch Bottle by Lee Montgomery-Hughes Twirling the empty bottle absently in the palm of her hand, she chanted softly. It was so tiny she had real doubts as to whether it would hold enough to make the charm work but she had no choice, it had to slip into a pocket or a bag. She’d considered making two, one for each so there was never any chance the wearer would inadvertently be without it but that would halve the effect, which was never a good thing. Lighting incense, white sage, Palo Santo and juniper for purification she gathered together the required elements. Placing a blessing on each she laid them out in order on the black cloth. Although a spell of protecting was required to ward off unwelcome advances from those that refused to pass to the afterlife, she’d decided to include a little something for positivity and happiness. The sunflower radiated brightly. Carefully she picked out a few seeds with her gold tweezers, she’d not have room for many but figured that even just a couple should be enough. She re-read the request again to make sure she had not missed anything. The letter was beautifully hand scripted, which was a rare thing in these days of technological advancement. It contained far more information requested, as if there’d been a cathartic need to share. In a throw away comment about an upcoming anniversary was an obscure hint towards a desperate longing to start a family. That was the main reason for the sunflower seeds. Naturally she had made a wish when cutting it that morning. Not a grand one, those have a habit of falling by the wayside as too difficult to accomplish in a day but her outspoken desire for a child was one she hoped would hold sway for both herself and the bottle. She flicked through her Book of Shadows; sure she’d written something about making a Witch Bottle more personal. Each page contained spells, incantations, ritual practices and laws all scripted in purple ink, using feather quills she had acquired throughout the years. The required page almost fell open by itself. She read aloud … To intensify the invocation, the charm should be worn at all times. That was it. The tiny bottle cried out for a bond below the seal to create a necklace. Searching her supplies she selected a neutral twine. When slipping the cork in she added a final blessing before dipping it into the yellow wax and lovingly tying the string. Once done she popped it in a plain brown paper bag and placed it alongside the others in the basket. After lunch she made her rounds, not on a broom as you might expect but on her trusted old-fashioned push bike. Once delivered to the relevant doorsteps her part was played out but hopefully after tonight the fertility bit would kick in, thus having both her and the bottle recipient embarking on a whole new adventure together. Kevin the Coal Tit and the Sunflower Seed By Mary Buchan Kevin a very small, dull coloured, unremarkable bird, but a bird with big ideas looked up and around, still safe and picked up another black shiny sunflower seed but it was one too many. Kevin decided to save it for another day. With it it firmly in his beak he flew to the garden patio where Alf the gardener stored all his potted plants during the winter. Kevin settled on the rim of one from where he eyed each pot in turn, finally choosing a small terracotta one tucked back between two larger pots. Perfect, he flew down on to its earthy surface, a quick check for danger then he tucked the seed into the soil near to the edge of the pot. November, December, January the winter slowly passed, during which time Kevin planted several more seeds around the garden. By February green shoots were beginning to show in some of the smaller pots. As the days grew longer and warmer, among the stiff green spikes of Alf's favourite bulbs, the Iris Reticulata, another seed slowly pushed its head through the soil and into the daylight. This seedling was protected from the worst of the weather by the mass of beautiful blue irises. As their flowers faded the tall spiky leaves took over. It was not until they too died down that Alf noticed the stranger in the pot. He recognised it to be a sunflower, well grown, well worth keeping. Alf made a quick trip to his potting shed to return with a similar pot into which he carefully transferred the young sunflower plant. As the sunflower grew, the gardener carefully moved it into a large pot, then a larger pot, then a still larger pot, big enough to last the sunflower well into the autumn. As summer slowed into September the garden birds gradually returned to the bird table. Among them came Kevin coal tit. Not really hungry, he came out of curiosity flitting unseen from plant to tree to plant. Arriving on the patio he was amazed to see the sunflower. It had to be inspected. The sunflower now stood six feet tall, a tower of large heart shaped green leaves growing alternately up a very strong bristly stem. The leaves he used as a stairway, flitting from leaf to leaf. On his way to the top he found many tasty insects. At the top he was greeted by the sight of the flower, very big as round as a full moon with a halo of bright yellow petals encircled with green sepals. Clinging to the edge of the flower Kevin gazed in wonder at the mass of his favourite seeds neatly radiating from the centre. Not yet fully ripe, some were still covered by little spent husks. For a while Kevin cheekily pecked off a few more, looked up, flapped his wings and flew on his way. Radiance in Desolation By Arron Williams It was barren when we arrived. A small brown square of a council estate garden. Mum said the soil was too dry to garden, it was coarse and pale like dusty lifeless ash. Not even the weeds dared to grow there. The house wasn’t much better. It was a crude hovel with two bedrooms, low ceilings and a wall in the living room stained with speckles of old mould damage that was haphazardly scrubbed off with what looked like acid or some other criminal concoction of mixed cleaning fluids. Even as kids it looked small to me and my sister but it was better than the flat we stayed in before moving. The place carried a desolate mood. The walls were coated a dull unenthusiastic cream, yellow lightbulbs hung from the ceiling emitting a dampened lazy haze of sickly light. Donated furniture sparsely decorated the rooms and looked like it carried ghosts. Even though we all lived on top of each other in the cramped spaces, me and my sister still found places and time to play. The house carpets coated in a fine layer of lingering toys waiting to trip unsuspecting parents or spear into bare feet. That was until, after one too many occasions of minor injuries, me and my sister were exiled to play amongst the sorrowful soil. Our toys no longer rolling over the veil of carpet and instead over the crumbling, dusty earth surrounded by a brown wooden fence. A flat square with no added bumps, furniture or stairs to play around. The only excitement the dirt brought was the occasional playmate in the form of an ant or stray woodlouse. They always seemed just as bored with the colourless space as us. One day while pushing a metal toy tractor over the mud I saw it. A single shoot of a green stem with two adorning leaves; despite the dryness of the ground. Amazed, I called out to my sister who stumbled over and looked upon the strange life that grew in what we considered a desert. We stared in awe. A new game was developed. Each day we would race out in the morning to be the first outside to see if it had changed. Every small development we watched, each growth spurt, each new leaf. We started feeding it little bowls of water, pouring it on to help our new friend grow. Then it grew a bright yellow flower that brought wonder to the barren landscape. Then each week it got bigger and bigger and the flower larger. We measured its progress, fumbling rulers against its stem until it grew taller than either of us could reach. It towered over me and my sister. What was once a rogue stem now stood as a radiant beacon that transformed the sad space. Like a lighthouse it guided the bumbling bees and buzzing bugs to it. The bright flower dispelling the desolate aura of the garden. Sunflowers dance in the breeze By Kate Geoghegan Sunflowers dance in the breeze roses, so scarlet they make you feel warm lavender, beauty to see and to smell grass, to wade through your toes snowdrops, to remind you of cool days buttercups and dandelions, to remind you of being a child and not having a care in the world and laughing with the flowers and being free and natural because that is what nature is being natural being beautiful and now I'm a grown sunflower The sunflower- symbol of love Leela went back into the myths surrounding the sunflower while writing this. She is just getting over a bad dose of Covid and found writing to be helpful. By Leela Gautam I see you move across the sky, my eyes follow you through the day, until the coming of night. I do not cringe or hide away, I am not blinded or overcome, I thrive in your light. There is no shame for having loved you unconditionally. Your gaze tells me of regret at past transgressions. Our distance is the price you pay. They call me the sunflower, loved by millions, delighted at my endurance, I am a symbol of love and strength. Even as you fade into the night, I light up someone’s heart, ignite the love dormant in the soul. Memories By TA Saunders This painting reminds me that when I was a little three year old my class and I (at Cliff School in Wakefield ) dressed up as sunflowers, wearing heads that we had painted. We walked around in a circle singing nursery rhymes and leaping up as if we were growing taller and taller. My mother watched. A happy time. Sunflowers By Joy Eckert Maureen O’Connell opens up the kitchen cupboard to take out her favourite treat. Placing the jar of caramel sauce to one side she takes an apple from the fruit bowl to slice off pieces small enough to fit in the opening. Double dipping as no one else is allowed near her stash. Devouring each piece with satisfaction. Doing so she gazes out of the window then suddenly remembers about the play her daughter Jasmine is taking part in. She peers round the door to the living room where her husband Jim sits comfortably looking as if he’s trying to figure out an answer for a crossword clue. “By the way Jim our local theatre is holding a play. The ticket price will go to charity. So, do you want to buy one or not?” asks Maureen. “Buy what?” asks Jim peering over the top of his newspaper. “Jim you never listen to me,” she replies, annoyed. “Our daughter is playing the part of a sunflower. Do you want to come with me or not?” “Yeah, why not,” Jim mumbles. “What charity is it this year, anyway?” “Help for Ukraine. They think they’ll get a good turnout.” Maureen reaches for her mobile before heading back into the kitchen literally stuffing her mouth with a spoon full of that delicious sauce. Apple rapidly browning with neglect. Firstly, taking a cloth to wipe her hands she presses the keypad for the Paramount Theatre. “Hello Sam could you hold two tickets for the Sunflowers? Jasmine is playing one of those sunflowers.” Jasmine and her best friend Angus were practising their parts for the upcoming play in the garage, just off the kitchen. Not knowing that they would be picked to play sunflowers. But as Angus would remind her ‘small baby steps Jasmine before our names are in lights’. Talking like a professional thespian in the making. Trying to concentrate they hear her mother shouting. “Want something to eat you two?” she asks. Jasmine and Angus giggle. “Eh…no thanks too busy.” The clapping begins as the first scene comes to an end. “How long have we got before I melt away in this sunflower costume?” whispers Jasmine with a huge sigh. “Just a few more minutes I hope,” replied Angus. “I think my whole being has been placed in the body of a woolly mammoth.” “Why a woolly mammoth Angus?” “Because my dear Jasmine, they are covered in wool…aren’t they?” Jasmine only shrugs. Maureen and Jim sit right in the front waiting for their precious daughter to appear. Then it happens. Terrifying screams echo around the theatre. “The wasp, it stung me,” Maureen shouts pulling her hand up, which is stuck in her precious jar of caramel as she flits about covered in the sticky sauce. Rushing out from back stage Jasmine and Angus stare in amazement as they watch her running away. “Alas poor Maureen, we knew her well,” sighs Angus. Happy faces full of hope By Margaret Hughes Like every plant, I start as a seed flourishing well if I have extra feed. True to my name, I follow the sun. Children who grow me have lots of fun, they treasure me, measure me. Who has won? My sun kissed face Will make anyone smile.. I’ll give good food when I’ve lost my hair, seed for the birds, oil to sell at the fair. That’s not all. Herbalists love me, they’ll make many a cure. Save some of my seed. Next year, grow more. Sunflowers by John FR Munro Everything was yellow, it always made her mellow, sunflowers decorating the aisle her yellow dress, her gorgeous smile. Buttercups and daffodils, on skirts and blouses, worn by girls, an eclectic collection of yellow ties, worn by men, of every size. A yellow carpet by the font, the list ticked off on “What I want” around him, people cried as they remembered the day she died. “Promise me, it will be yellow, nothing black, can you allow” her death wish, followed to the letter no one - now - will ever forget her. The sunflower will shine tomorrow The sunflower is the national flower of Ukraine. by Philip Burton A Ukrainian woman approached a Russian soldier. "I give you these seeds," she said. "Pocket them so at least sunflowers will grow when you lie down here." Wounds slowed him, and, fast mature, he ceased to turn his aching head toward the sun. Faced east, thought of home, lowered his neck like a sunflower cultivar preferred by farmers – one which birds fly over without seeing it as a daily bread. Her words weighed on him. Death ebbed, flowed, steamed from the samovar*. He scooped some seed from his telogrieka** and cooked it in a snowshed using his thermobaric flamethrower. You’ll not grow any more. A drone ploughed into the grenadier and he welcomed a cold earth bed. Two stray seeds from the seam of his coat flowered straight after the war. * samovar a metal container traditionally used to heat and boil water. ** telogrieka warm cotton wool-padded jacket Sunflower (team anology) by Nigel Dyer The seed is the idea that we can grow The flower is the fruition of what we now know The soil is the stable base, that we provide The care and the love, helps it grow with pride Daily we water it and give a little feed Strong support is what we all need We work together, we thrive and shine This team has no I or me or mine We plant the seed, water and feed Help it grow, give what it needs You are the flower, we are the stem Holding and supporting you, so you shine again Six-Year-Old Summer by Antony Osgood You brought home a seed from school and set its pot against red brick, Watered sparingly from a chipped blue cup, Waited irritably, keen-eyed each morning, Home-time skipping care-rush As if nature were a playing-field race – Until crowing at clouds of sparrows Green unfolded finally, And you forward-rolled across the garden until tea-time. I watched you cup the pot As if whispering to a blind kitten Arcane encouragements to suckle. Following your voice it grew – The length of a thumb, the span of a hand, Until gently, planted in dark earth To take its chances with the worms We fetched the most ambitious bamboo stake, Tied with twine, sang a plainsong With each school run, ‘Morning has broken, sunshine.’ And I thought here is the lot of all parents, Pointing toward best-guess path Through clear air toward a hopeful sun, A lean-on giving direction to becoming, Feeding roots, keeping the plant That will outgrow them safe. And when the gold florets detonated, Reached higher than me, Further than I dared hope, You sat on my shoulders to worship what you had made Amazed more at petals than your stupid father’s tears. Not In My Patch by Rachel Burrows I want to grow a sunflower Like they did on Blue Peter And measure the height Until it's taller than me Then the neighbours will see it Over the fence Smiling and nodding At the people who pass And say, “Wow – what a star! To grow such a giant Of towering sunshine To fill us with joy As we hurry to work. How proud you must be Of your daughter’s green fingers And determination.” And dad will nod With his face like the sunflower’s And agree. “Sunflowers?” he says, when I ask him, “What use are they? Best try Jerusalem Artichokes.” Sunflowers by Roger Knight Sunflowers must have held a special significance for Vincent van Gogh. Perhaps that was why he painted at least five different versions of sunflowers in a vase. He once wrote that he was communicating his gratitude for them, and in so doing has unknowingly immortalized them with his paintings. They are so emblematic of the life force created by the summer sun, if not it’s progeny! This giant flower that grows so profusely in Arles from where van Gogh painted them, with their multiple whorls of disc florets that mature into fruit and seed that produces a much sought after oil. Such gift giving, bright botanical beauties! Little wonder van Gogh was so captivated by them all. Sunflowers by Helen Edwards Oh to be a sunflower and stretch up to the sky To feel the warmth upon my face and the breeze meandering by Standing amongst my friends all day feeling solid in their strength Looking out across a sea of yellow at the various different lengths Some small, some tall. Some with multiple heads Some vibrant, alive and healthy whilst others nearly dead But in death the sunflower plays a very important role It wilts, spreads it’s seeds and multiplies a 100-fold Oh to be a sunflower in the field that I know At the base of the Pewsey downs under the Wiltshire White horse’s glow I would stand proud and open my petals wide After closing them each evening for the night I would welcome children running round knocking my thick, green stem Playing hide and seek and tag and laughing with their friends I might be picked to go in a vase but would I really mind? To be looked upon with love and kindness. That would make me truly shine. Lost in Italy by Laura Sanders I ventured across fields of Sunflowers - showy, bold and bright. In Italy's olive Tuscan hills, they follow the sun's strong light. Blooming, brazen lion heads, with golden petaled manes. Amazing flowers, providing for birds, a rich bounty, for their gain. A yellow sun, a scorched brown centre, denoting health, vitality. Huge flower heads, artist Van Gogh, he painted them, for all to see. Green fresh leaves on "pole-like" stems, towering high, so tall. The sunflower is a plant that we love, it seems to have it all! June 15, 2022
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Thought bubbles from dog
by Michael Stichbury
Hmm No – nothing wrong with the water but that artist feller we just passed must be on something.
Perhaps if I fawn on him he’ll give me some to try...
The Fog
by Sue Ford
She didn’t see it coming.
Fog started rolling in with the smooth elegance of fear.
Swirling around her feet like her dog seeking attention.
White light, blurred with the eraser of age splits memories.
A word, a name she knows she knows but cannot pull forward.
With the grace of knowing her, the fog blurs her mind further.
The nod of acknowledgement, the smile of hello,
no one would realise by the expression on her face.
A siren calls, not with melodic voice but with foul stench.
Below reclusion forests on the edge of sandy shores,
unseen dead crabs and slimy bladderwrack wait for her there.
She can see blue clarity just a fingertip away.
On the surface, a perfect day of sunshine and clear sky
not all is as it seems.
Hope is ahead
by Leela Gautam
Hope is ahead
On this warm summer’s day,
Wading into the bay with my friend,
I leave behind the shadows of yesterday.
Ahead, the eruption of light ,
The dark rocks, no longer forbidding.
In the sky a streak of brightness
One by one my cares drop,
float away .Hope is ahead.
I don’t look back or stop.
He is there behind me with unconditional love.
Evening reflections
by TA Saunders
Oh to be carefree.
Anichka, walking barefooted on the wet sand, took a deep breath as she savoured the gentle sea breeze on her youthful face. What paradise. The sunset, the water gently lapping ahead of her on this balmy summer’s evening. What a fabulous composition it would make for an artist. Rolling her shoulders slightly, that tense feeling, brought on from months of stress, strain and grief, was ever so slightly replaced with a more uplifting sense. That she had the strength to get through this ordeal. That life would get better.
Seagulls could be heard in the distance.
Mungo, the Cocker Spaniel was content, snuffling like a pig through the sand, looking for food, no doubt. Oh to be a dog with no responsibilities. He had lovingly greeted her when Bert and Thelma had collected her from the airport and taken her to their peaceful home. Mungo had instantly become an inseparable friend. And Bert and Thelma were such kind, caring people, who had restored Anichka’s faith in humanity. They were retired and had made contact with her online. Instantly striking up a friendship they wanted to help her but Anichka had insisted on paying her airfare. Here she was on the tranquil Devon coast. Such an utter contrast to war-torn Mariupol, the city of her birth, where she had lived all her life. Where her parents lived until their block of flats was destroyed and they had both perished. Only in their 50s they had so much more to do in their lives. Oh Mariupol. Where she had fallen in love with her sweetheart, Boyko. It was devastating when he told her to leave and that he would stay and fight. But she admired his stubborn determination, in common with so many Ukrainians. They would not be cowed. She hadn’t heard from him in a month, though. He would love this place.
Evening reflections
by Laura Sanders
Solitude, only Suzie and I, amble along together.
A strong bond, we're out, in all kinds of weather.
Light descends, a hush of peace, settles over the land.
Mirror images of dog and owner, toes wriggle in sand.
Today is warmer, a cool breeze whispers around.
Only cries, distant aquatic birds, shrill, piercing, sound.
Noise of Suzie, lapping water, I wade to the far edge.
My forever companion and 'self, reach a silt-laden ledge.
Glowing sky shimmers, a fusion of coloured light, rides.
Beauty of the earth, witnessed, with my dog, by my side.
The end of a day’s fishing off Bermuda
by Roger Knight
It had been a satisfying day’s fishing.
The fishing pots had produced some good sized lobsters
and we had caught a few Bonito and Amberjack on our hand lines.
The sun by now was more timid. It no longer felt like a sword between my shoulder blades and was about to be resheathed for another day.
It was time to relax, reflect on the day’s toil and head for home.
The island with its white washed roofed houses, glistened in the late afternoon sun from afar, not unlike an Atlantic Santorini!
By now, the setting sun was about to slip below the horizon, but before it did, vivid hues of pink and purple spread across the water.
The sky had turned a pale, fading crimson, and parting day,
much like Byron’s dying dolphin was about to be enacted.
‘whom each pang imbues with a new colour as it gasps away,
the last still loveliest, till ‘t is gone – and all is gray’.
Serenity Bay
by Nigel Dyer
She walks off the stresses of her day
Paddling in the receding waters of the bay
Her trusty companion, never far away
The hustle and bustle of the daily grind
Are necessary, but never kind
But must keep pace or be left behind
The kids to school, busy working day
Keep the house, cook dinner, partner’s away
They do what they must, to earn their pay
Then just as the sun gives way to night
And waters calm and fading light
So her time comes in to sight
Reflections on her day
Reflections on the bay
Her stresses, like the tide, ebb away
The serenity calms her
Come summer or winter
The day now behind her
And as the tide takes away her stress
Her feet enjoy the soft sand’s caress
So she sets the tone, for the night’s rest
A chat with her partner on the phone
Looks forward to next time they’re home
Together in heart, but sleeping alone
Dreams of her partner, dreams of the bay
It’s their place, they’re connected that way
Awakes refreshed, for the new day
Beach
by John FR Munro
Each year she came to the beach,
The Normandy Landings, she came to teach
To describe all the horrors she’d seen
When only a girl of 15
It was the 6th of June 1944
Since 1939 they’d been a World War
Often in French she’d say “Mon Dieu”
At the evils that nations, will often do
Sat on the beach, in the pouring rain
Tears flowed as she thought of Ukraine
Have we not learnt, from the previous pain
She shouted to the skies” God, why again?”
The sound, of the roaring sea crashing
Reminded her, of the D Day fighting
Thunder boomed above her head
As she remembered, the wounded and dead
Bodies floating near the shore
Dozens, hundreds, maybe more
Young lives given, to fight for liberty
So many souls, taken by the sea
The sun was now shining
The water was gleaming
A woman Kia walking along the beach
With her pet, within reach
School children are now arriving
Smiling, joking, even laughing
As she looked upon each youthful face
She started explaining the ultimate sacrifice
By Kate Geoghegan
I wander on the beach
The sand and sea within my reach
Dogs wade delicately through the sand
While parent and child are in the sea,hand in hand
Paddling,laughing and splashing about the water
Families: mums and dad's,sons and daughters
Sandcastles are made,people filled with pride
And then 'oh no!' Here comes the tide
And we all stand back to watch it come in
But we all know, later,we'll be on the beach again.
The Heartbreak Dog
by Antony Osgood
She follows the contour lines of the Heartbreak Dog,
Summoned by the spring line thrown up cottage slope from a lake so still
Each gunmetal cloud puddles in her eyes, tarantellas
Upon a silver ribbon edged by green fields,
Its inland beach confounding the hound
Waiting on her to assure it all is well.
When it is not.
This evening’s lie is a comfort-hug and ear-tug, a whistle to paddle
While chicken-dinner treats are softening in the cottage’s slow cooker.
The reflecting lake just another hymn-day miracle
In a day crammed with commonplace tearful wonders,
An evensong to end, at last, the requiem of summer.
Discovering there two evening suns,
One hung from sky, one held by water,
Cudgels the parallel day, furnishes her bedspread-heart
Woven from water with a looking-glass shallow-shore shoulder to cry on.
Only with distance and silence comes understanding.
The girl on the cusp of becoming a woman in the eyes of dull-groined men
Imagines her parents holding one another at the door,
Watching an identical girl and dog appear in the lake,
Strolling upside down, becoming closer as they go deeper,
As if two dogs shared four legs, two girls shared common toes, and woe,
While two dogs lean toward each other, drinking from a shared mouth, kissing.
It is the Heartbreak Dog’s
Last evening, and this, her goodbye walk.
Let her live forever in this one evening by the lake
Before the inoperable illness is destroyed come morning.
Saltwater Shimmers
by Owen Southwood
After ten hours of confused dreams I am awake. It is seven o’clock, medicine time. Mother enters the room with a tray. Upon the tray is a bowl of porridge and my Tuesday medicine. She looks different again. Often she looks different but always does the same things for me.
A worry strikes. "Should I finish my homework before school?"
Mother sighs. "No school today.”
The kindness of her voice reminds me of the original version of her.
"Eat up," she says, "Then we can take a stroll on the beach. The tide is out, it’s peaceful, good for thinking.."
I slurp the porridge and swallow my Tuesday medicine.
Nestled beside me is an old friend, sleeping, muzzle over paws. "Can Rusty come?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Rusty? Oh, yes of course. Can you get yourself dressed today?"
“I'll be five minutes."
She leaves and I look for my school uniform, can't find it, then remember there's no school today. I wear shorts and T-Shirt and my special bracelet.
Rusty circles my legs, eager to leave. We head downstairs where mother is in conversation with other versions of herself near a table with magazines on it. The three of us depart.
The beach is a wide open plane of gold, accented by white gulls, littered with rocks. When I see the distant ocean I picture myself underwater, gasping for air and then inexplicably slumped on the sand, crying beside a dead dog.
Rusty is a good boy, a good trusted friend. He doesn’t need a leash.
"Did you bring his ball?" I ask mother.
She pauses. "You got very upset last time. Are you sure?"
Rusty is excited. I grab the ball from her pocket and throw it.
“Fetch!”
It skims a sandbank and comes to rest near a rock pool.
But Rusty doesn't move. He just looks at me, head cocked. "What's wrong, boy?”
Then like magic Rusty vanishes. I look to Mother for reassurance. "Deep breaths," she says. "Deep breaths. It's alright. You’ll get clarity in a minute."
A strange fog takes hold, obscuring my mind, my memories, my thoughts. I find myself lost, paddling in a shallow wave.
Before the wave recedes I glimpse my reflection. The saltwater shimmers with a mosaic of greys and wrinkles and liver spots. An elderly man’s face stares back at me.
The burst of reality feels right and wrong at the same time. It squeezes tears from my eyes and then guttural howls from my belly. I’m here and I’m now and I’m old and I’m lost.
For a long moment I stand with the medicine woman holding me, and soon my clarity fades with the daylight: This is not morning, it is evening. I have slept all day, awake just in time for the sunset.
Finally the sun disappears into the sea just as Rusty did all those years ago without me.
Evening Reflections
(Remembering Lily)
by Joy Eckert
Another evening stroll with the sun on our heads and the sand enveloping our feet. We breathe in the salty air but with salty tears to match. Just the two of us tonight.
Old age took away our beloved companion Lily. Remembering the image of her as a young pup as she ran through this heavenly ocean with gusto. Watching her cute expression as she waited for that frisbee to take flight. The bright sunshine reflecting off those huge brown eyes as she ran in and out of the water with her companion Bess. Both shaking profusely within my reach. Wet shorts and T-shirt soaked as I laughed with the excitement of it all.
Life has changed for us. Bess missing her just as much as I am as she sniffs the sand trying to find Lily’s scent. Only to find seaweed and neglected sticks from other playful canines.
I walk through the calm water’s edge with my friend on my heels. Feeling the warmth of the sun on my body I listen to the sound of the seagulls as they pass overhead. My mind wandering to the halcyon days of when there were two. Long hours on this beach not wanting to leave the contentment of two dogs who became forever friends. Watching them play together in harmony while the disturbed sand from their paws showing proof of their existence.
Bess suddenly barks as if she hears a familiar sound. I look around hoping to see a familiar face. But all I see is my sad reflection below wishing the mirror of the sea could change it. Where I see a frown, a smile and where I see tears the brightness of my blue eyes blinking back at myself.
Following along this vast shore with Bess by my side I gaze into the distance as we continue our walk. I feel the nudge of a wet nose on the pocket of my pink shorts. But Bess has run into the water?
How could such a beloved creature, who loved this beach so much, not be part of it anymore, begging for treats as always? I smile.
Two days ago, Lily became unable to walk. So, I gathered her favourite familiar old blanket, wrapped it around her frail body and carried her down to the beach. Bess with nose up in the air, watching my every move. A few friends followed me down with solemn expressions. I instructed everyone to place smiles on their faces as we were here to celebrate Lily’s life. Dogs really know when you’re feeling down. “We are here to make her feel happy, not sad,” I told everyone.
We sang and we danced as if it was her birth. Her eyes shone like precious stones as she watched the waves flowing back and forth as I sat cradling her soft form. The lens of a camera, its focus on our special bond. Our eyes meet…. Every picture tells a story.
by Michael Stichbury
Hmm No – nothing wrong with the water but that artist feller we just passed must be on something.
Perhaps if I fawn on him he’ll give me some to try...
The Fog
by Sue Ford
She didn’t see it coming.
Fog started rolling in with the smooth elegance of fear.
Swirling around her feet like her dog seeking attention.
White light, blurred with the eraser of age splits memories.
A word, a name she knows she knows but cannot pull forward.
With the grace of knowing her, the fog blurs her mind further.
The nod of acknowledgement, the smile of hello,
no one would realise by the expression on her face.
A siren calls, not with melodic voice but with foul stench.
Below reclusion forests on the edge of sandy shores,
unseen dead crabs and slimy bladderwrack wait for her there.
She can see blue clarity just a fingertip away.
On the surface, a perfect day of sunshine and clear sky
not all is as it seems.
Hope is ahead
by Leela Gautam
Hope is ahead
On this warm summer’s day,
Wading into the bay with my friend,
I leave behind the shadows of yesterday.
Ahead, the eruption of light ,
The dark rocks, no longer forbidding.
In the sky a streak of brightness
One by one my cares drop,
float away .Hope is ahead.
I don’t look back or stop.
He is there behind me with unconditional love.
Evening reflections
by TA Saunders
Oh to be carefree.
Anichka, walking barefooted on the wet sand, took a deep breath as she savoured the gentle sea breeze on her youthful face. What paradise. The sunset, the water gently lapping ahead of her on this balmy summer’s evening. What a fabulous composition it would make for an artist. Rolling her shoulders slightly, that tense feeling, brought on from months of stress, strain and grief, was ever so slightly replaced with a more uplifting sense. That she had the strength to get through this ordeal. That life would get better.
Seagulls could be heard in the distance.
Mungo, the Cocker Spaniel was content, snuffling like a pig through the sand, looking for food, no doubt. Oh to be a dog with no responsibilities. He had lovingly greeted her when Bert and Thelma had collected her from the airport and taken her to their peaceful home. Mungo had instantly become an inseparable friend. And Bert and Thelma were such kind, caring people, who had restored Anichka’s faith in humanity. They were retired and had made contact with her online. Instantly striking up a friendship they wanted to help her but Anichka had insisted on paying her airfare. Here she was on the tranquil Devon coast. Such an utter contrast to war-torn Mariupol, the city of her birth, where she had lived all her life. Where her parents lived until their block of flats was destroyed and they had both perished. Only in their 50s they had so much more to do in their lives. Oh Mariupol. Where she had fallen in love with her sweetheart, Boyko. It was devastating when he told her to leave and that he would stay and fight. But she admired his stubborn determination, in common with so many Ukrainians. They would not be cowed. She hadn’t heard from him in a month, though. He would love this place.
Evening reflections
by Laura Sanders
Solitude, only Suzie and I, amble along together.
A strong bond, we're out, in all kinds of weather.
Light descends, a hush of peace, settles over the land.
Mirror images of dog and owner, toes wriggle in sand.
Today is warmer, a cool breeze whispers around.
Only cries, distant aquatic birds, shrill, piercing, sound.
Noise of Suzie, lapping water, I wade to the far edge.
My forever companion and 'self, reach a silt-laden ledge.
Glowing sky shimmers, a fusion of coloured light, rides.
Beauty of the earth, witnessed, with my dog, by my side.
The end of a day’s fishing off Bermuda
by Roger Knight
It had been a satisfying day’s fishing.
The fishing pots had produced some good sized lobsters
and we had caught a few Bonito and Amberjack on our hand lines.
The sun by now was more timid. It no longer felt like a sword between my shoulder blades and was about to be resheathed for another day.
It was time to relax, reflect on the day’s toil and head for home.
The island with its white washed roofed houses, glistened in the late afternoon sun from afar, not unlike an Atlantic Santorini!
By now, the setting sun was about to slip below the horizon, but before it did, vivid hues of pink and purple spread across the water.
The sky had turned a pale, fading crimson, and parting day,
much like Byron’s dying dolphin was about to be enacted.
‘whom each pang imbues with a new colour as it gasps away,
the last still loveliest, till ‘t is gone – and all is gray’.
Serenity Bay
by Nigel Dyer
She walks off the stresses of her day
Paddling in the receding waters of the bay
Her trusty companion, never far away
The hustle and bustle of the daily grind
Are necessary, but never kind
But must keep pace or be left behind
The kids to school, busy working day
Keep the house, cook dinner, partner’s away
They do what they must, to earn their pay
Then just as the sun gives way to night
And waters calm and fading light
So her time comes in to sight
Reflections on her day
Reflections on the bay
Her stresses, like the tide, ebb away
The serenity calms her
Come summer or winter
The day now behind her
And as the tide takes away her stress
Her feet enjoy the soft sand’s caress
So she sets the tone, for the night’s rest
A chat with her partner on the phone
Looks forward to next time they’re home
Together in heart, but sleeping alone
Dreams of her partner, dreams of the bay
It’s their place, they’re connected that way
Awakes refreshed, for the new day
Beach
by John FR Munro
Each year she came to the beach,
The Normandy Landings, she came to teach
To describe all the horrors she’d seen
When only a girl of 15
It was the 6th of June 1944
Since 1939 they’d been a World War
Often in French she’d say “Mon Dieu”
At the evils that nations, will often do
Sat on the beach, in the pouring rain
Tears flowed as she thought of Ukraine
Have we not learnt, from the previous pain
She shouted to the skies” God, why again?”
The sound, of the roaring sea crashing
Reminded her, of the D Day fighting
Thunder boomed above her head
As she remembered, the wounded and dead
Bodies floating near the shore
Dozens, hundreds, maybe more
Young lives given, to fight for liberty
So many souls, taken by the sea
The sun was now shining
The water was gleaming
A woman Kia walking along the beach
With her pet, within reach
School children are now arriving
Smiling, joking, even laughing
As she looked upon each youthful face
She started explaining the ultimate sacrifice
By Kate Geoghegan
I wander on the beach
The sand and sea within my reach
Dogs wade delicately through the sand
While parent and child are in the sea,hand in hand
Paddling,laughing and splashing about the water
Families: mums and dad's,sons and daughters
Sandcastles are made,people filled with pride
And then 'oh no!' Here comes the tide
And we all stand back to watch it come in
But we all know, later,we'll be on the beach again.
The Heartbreak Dog
by Antony Osgood
She follows the contour lines of the Heartbreak Dog,
Summoned by the spring line thrown up cottage slope from a lake so still
Each gunmetal cloud puddles in her eyes, tarantellas
Upon a silver ribbon edged by green fields,
Its inland beach confounding the hound
Waiting on her to assure it all is well.
When it is not.
This evening’s lie is a comfort-hug and ear-tug, a whistle to paddle
While chicken-dinner treats are softening in the cottage’s slow cooker.
The reflecting lake just another hymn-day miracle
In a day crammed with commonplace tearful wonders,
An evensong to end, at last, the requiem of summer.
Discovering there two evening suns,
One hung from sky, one held by water,
Cudgels the parallel day, furnishes her bedspread-heart
Woven from water with a looking-glass shallow-shore shoulder to cry on.
Only with distance and silence comes understanding.
The girl on the cusp of becoming a woman in the eyes of dull-groined men
Imagines her parents holding one another at the door,
Watching an identical girl and dog appear in the lake,
Strolling upside down, becoming closer as they go deeper,
As if two dogs shared four legs, two girls shared common toes, and woe,
While two dogs lean toward each other, drinking from a shared mouth, kissing.
It is the Heartbreak Dog’s
Last evening, and this, her goodbye walk.
Let her live forever in this one evening by the lake
Before the inoperable illness is destroyed come morning.
Saltwater Shimmers
by Owen Southwood
After ten hours of confused dreams I am awake. It is seven o’clock, medicine time. Mother enters the room with a tray. Upon the tray is a bowl of porridge and my Tuesday medicine. She looks different again. Often she looks different but always does the same things for me.
A worry strikes. "Should I finish my homework before school?"
Mother sighs. "No school today.”
The kindness of her voice reminds me of the original version of her.
"Eat up," she says, "Then we can take a stroll on the beach. The tide is out, it’s peaceful, good for thinking.."
I slurp the porridge and swallow my Tuesday medicine.
Nestled beside me is an old friend, sleeping, muzzle over paws. "Can Rusty come?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Rusty? Oh, yes of course. Can you get yourself dressed today?"
“I'll be five minutes."
She leaves and I look for my school uniform, can't find it, then remember there's no school today. I wear shorts and T-Shirt and my special bracelet.
Rusty circles my legs, eager to leave. We head downstairs where mother is in conversation with other versions of herself near a table with magazines on it. The three of us depart.
The beach is a wide open plane of gold, accented by white gulls, littered with rocks. When I see the distant ocean I picture myself underwater, gasping for air and then inexplicably slumped on the sand, crying beside a dead dog.
Rusty is a good boy, a good trusted friend. He doesn’t need a leash.
"Did you bring his ball?" I ask mother.
She pauses. "You got very upset last time. Are you sure?"
Rusty is excited. I grab the ball from her pocket and throw it.
“Fetch!”
It skims a sandbank and comes to rest near a rock pool.
But Rusty doesn't move. He just looks at me, head cocked. "What's wrong, boy?”
Then like magic Rusty vanishes. I look to Mother for reassurance. "Deep breaths," she says. "Deep breaths. It's alright. You’ll get clarity in a minute."
A strange fog takes hold, obscuring my mind, my memories, my thoughts. I find myself lost, paddling in a shallow wave.
Before the wave recedes I glimpse my reflection. The saltwater shimmers with a mosaic of greys and wrinkles and liver spots. An elderly man’s face stares back at me.
The burst of reality feels right and wrong at the same time. It squeezes tears from my eyes and then guttural howls from my belly. I’m here and I’m now and I’m old and I’m lost.
For a long moment I stand with the medicine woman holding me, and soon my clarity fades with the daylight: This is not morning, it is evening. I have slept all day, awake just in time for the sunset.
Finally the sun disappears into the sea just as Rusty did all those years ago without me.
Evening Reflections
(Remembering Lily)
by Joy Eckert
Another evening stroll with the sun on our heads and the sand enveloping our feet. We breathe in the salty air but with salty tears to match. Just the two of us tonight.
Old age took away our beloved companion Lily. Remembering the image of her as a young pup as she ran through this heavenly ocean with gusto. Watching her cute expression as she waited for that frisbee to take flight. The bright sunshine reflecting off those huge brown eyes as she ran in and out of the water with her companion Bess. Both shaking profusely within my reach. Wet shorts and T-shirt soaked as I laughed with the excitement of it all.
Life has changed for us. Bess missing her just as much as I am as she sniffs the sand trying to find Lily’s scent. Only to find seaweed and neglected sticks from other playful canines.
I walk through the calm water’s edge with my friend on my heels. Feeling the warmth of the sun on my body I listen to the sound of the seagulls as they pass overhead. My mind wandering to the halcyon days of when there were two. Long hours on this beach not wanting to leave the contentment of two dogs who became forever friends. Watching them play together in harmony while the disturbed sand from their paws showing proof of their existence.
Bess suddenly barks as if she hears a familiar sound. I look around hoping to see a familiar face. But all I see is my sad reflection below wishing the mirror of the sea could change it. Where I see a frown, a smile and where I see tears the brightness of my blue eyes blinking back at myself.
Following along this vast shore with Bess by my side I gaze into the distance as we continue our walk. I feel the nudge of a wet nose on the pocket of my pink shorts. But Bess has run into the water?
How could such a beloved creature, who loved this beach so much, not be part of it anymore, begging for treats as always? I smile.
Two days ago, Lily became unable to walk. So, I gathered her favourite familiar old blanket, wrapped it around her frail body and carried her down to the beach. Bess with nose up in the air, watching my every move. A few friends followed me down with solemn expressions. I instructed everyone to place smiles on their faces as we were here to celebrate Lily’s life. Dogs really know when you’re feeling down. “We are here to make her feel happy, not sad,” I told everyone.
We sang and we danced as if it was her birth. Her eyes shone like precious stones as she watched the waves flowing back and forth as I sat cradling her soft form. The lens of a camera, its focus on our special bond. Our eyes meet…. Every picture tells a story.
May 13, 2022
Rough and Ready
by Lee Montgomery-Hughes
The days were sunny and bright, hedgerows swarmed with intrepid bugs and the grass was a lush green. It was so warm there was no real need for coats.
“It’s today.”
“What is?”
“They’re coming, coming here, today.”
“Who?”
“Fit young men, they come every year to make us pretty.”
“You’re too vain. It’s not like we’re going to town or anything, so there’s no need to look glamorous.”
“We might be chosen.”
“I fancy a trip out.”
“I’ve heard that it’s not all it’s cracked-up to be. Most never return.”
They shuddered, just thinking about it.
“I wonder what happens to them?” one mumbled through a mouthful of dandelion leaves.
“I heard …” munch, munch, munch, “that …” munch. “… they go to a new place.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would want to leave?”
There was silence, apart from the munching.
“I’m getting a complete make-over this time, ditch the old coat and have my nails done so I’m beach-fit.”
“You’ve never been to a beach?”
“I haven’t, but you never know. The way village girls talk about it, I think I’d like to.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, they do a lot of paddling and swimming.”
“So do we.” They all gazed towards the old rain-filled bathtub standing in a huge puddle and snorted, sounding more like pigs.
“Now, now ladies, remember who you are.”
“There is someone to look good for.”
They all gazed towards the handsome chap snoozing under the oak tree.
He was their kind of guy. Big, strong, and they thought it was amazing when he took them under the moonlight. Naturally they shared him, well I mean why not, he definitely had enough to go around.
“Did you hear about the new guy?” one asked, changing the subject.
“I’ve heard he’s kinky.”
“I like it rough.”
They all stared at her.
“Well, sorry but I do. Just saying.”
They shook their heads. She was young, travelled in from the city last spring.
The ladies of the green could never understand the attraction for the bright lights and the harsh ways of the neighbourhoods she grew up in. They’d heard it was an urban farm kind of a place with a reputation for trouble. She simply didn’t fit-in, but what could they do? No one had consulted them about her arrival. There they were last spring, minding their own business, well actually minding everybody else’s business but that’s another story. When she arrived, bold as you like, she jumped from the back of a pink four-by-four and sauntered up to them. No introductions or anything.
“Next you’ll be telling us you’re not into all this girlie stuff.”
“Never … but those guys are hot and the way they take control with their vibrating toy. I tell you, I’m not gonna struggle that’s for sure, they can do anything they fancy to me.”
Plucking a giant daisy, she twirled it in her mouth.
“Tart!!” they all exclaimed and sauntered off to the other end of the field, in disgust.
by Lee Montgomery-Hughes
The days were sunny and bright, hedgerows swarmed with intrepid bugs and the grass was a lush green. It was so warm there was no real need for coats.
“It’s today.”
“What is?”
“They’re coming, coming here, today.”
“Who?”
“Fit young men, they come every year to make us pretty.”
“You’re too vain. It’s not like we’re going to town or anything, so there’s no need to look glamorous.”
“We might be chosen.”
“I fancy a trip out.”
“I’ve heard that it’s not all it’s cracked-up to be. Most never return.”
They shuddered, just thinking about it.
“I wonder what happens to them?” one mumbled through a mouthful of dandelion leaves.
“I heard …” munch, munch, munch, “that …” munch. “… they go to a new place.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would want to leave?”
There was silence, apart from the munching.
“I’m getting a complete make-over this time, ditch the old coat and have my nails done so I’m beach-fit.”
“You’ve never been to a beach?”
“I haven’t, but you never know. The way village girls talk about it, I think I’d like to.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, they do a lot of paddling and swimming.”
“So do we.” They all gazed towards the old rain-filled bathtub standing in a huge puddle and snorted, sounding more like pigs.
“Now, now ladies, remember who you are.”
“There is someone to look good for.”
They all gazed towards the handsome chap snoozing under the oak tree.
He was their kind of guy. Big, strong, and they thought it was amazing when he took them under the moonlight. Naturally they shared him, well I mean why not, he definitely had enough to go around.
“Did you hear about the new guy?” one asked, changing the subject.
“I’ve heard he’s kinky.”
“I like it rough.”
They all stared at her.
“Well, sorry but I do. Just saying.”
They shook their heads. She was young, travelled in from the city last spring.
The ladies of the green could never understand the attraction for the bright lights and the harsh ways of the neighbourhoods she grew up in. They’d heard it was an urban farm kind of a place with a reputation for trouble. She simply didn’t fit-in, but what could they do? No one had consulted them about her arrival. There they were last spring, minding their own business, well actually minding everybody else’s business but that’s another story. When she arrived, bold as you like, she jumped from the back of a pink four-by-four and sauntered up to them. No introductions or anything.
“Next you’ll be telling us you’re not into all this girlie stuff.”
“Never … but those guys are hot and the way they take control with their vibrating toy. I tell you, I’m not gonna struggle that’s for sure, they can do anything they fancy to me.”
Plucking a giant daisy, she twirled it in her mouth.
“Tart!!” they all exclaimed and sauntered off to the other end of the field, in disgust.
Fleece
by John FR Munro
365 days a year, they’re fleecing
No controls, protection or policing
They go without detection
They call them politicians
They rob the poor, to finance the rich
Smugly pontificating “Life’s a Bitch”
Leaving you nothing to smile at or cheer
And they’ll fleece you again, next year
by John FR Munro
365 days a year, they’re fleecing
No controls, protection or policing
They go without detection
They call them politicians
They rob the poor, to finance the rich
Smugly pontificating “Life’s a Bitch”
Leaving you nothing to smile at or cheer
And they’ll fleece you again, next year
The Ball
by
Michael Stichbury
“Not found your ball yet boys?”
“No, farmer Williams, these are the last four sheep – there's been no sign of it.”
“Meghan said she thought she was sure she saw your ball land amongst our sheep.”
“There's been no sign of it here.”
“Perhaps if we looked in amongst the leeks – I need to pull a few up. I'll tell you what, if you go up to the house, Meghan will get you a nice cup of tea before we look at them.”
“A cup of tea – after all this... Couldn't we have a beer? Better than that two beers...?”
“Ah, sorry boys, this is north Wales, we are dry on a Sunday. You should be in south Wales, if you want a beer.”
“No beer on a Sunday – what sort of country is this? Back home in New Zealand we are pretty rural but we can still get beer on a Sunday.”
“It's a chapel thing, they make the rules. It'll have to be tea. Sorry boys.”
”Ok. We'll have to have tea for now.”
“It is a funny thing but last year when the Wallabies played Wrexham the same thing happened. They couldn't find the ball amongst the sheep either. Oh wait a minute here comes Meghan – it looks as if she's just found your ball. Thanks boys. Enjoy the second half.”
by
Michael Stichbury
“Not found your ball yet boys?”
“No, farmer Williams, these are the last four sheep – there's been no sign of it.”
“Meghan said she thought she was sure she saw your ball land amongst our sheep.”
“There's been no sign of it here.”
“Perhaps if we looked in amongst the leeks – I need to pull a few up. I'll tell you what, if you go up to the house, Meghan will get you a nice cup of tea before we look at them.”
“A cup of tea – after all this... Couldn't we have a beer? Better than that two beers...?”
“Ah, sorry boys, this is north Wales, we are dry on a Sunday. You should be in south Wales, if you want a beer.”
“No beer on a Sunday – what sort of country is this? Back home in New Zealand we are pretty rural but we can still get beer on a Sunday.”
“It's a chapel thing, they make the rules. It'll have to be tea. Sorry boys.”
”Ok. We'll have to have tea for now.”
“It is a funny thing but last year when the Wallabies played Wrexham the same thing happened. They couldn't find the ball amongst the sheep either. Oh wait a minute here comes Meghan – it looks as if she's just found your ball. Thanks boys. Enjoy the second half.”
