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 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
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 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
January 13, 2023
Let’s Grow Old Together
by Donna Turner
“Let’s grow old together,” he said to her in a quiet moment on their wedding day.
“Can’t wait,” she giggled back.
That was how he proposed to her, down on one knee in the stones on the beach she loved. Later it was what he said to her in special moments and lovingly written in birthday, Valentine's and anniversary cards. Ten years… twenty-five years… fifty years together and he
loved her as much as the day they met. Now they are approaching their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. He's chosen a beautiful sapphire
blue glass vase for the roses he’s grown on his allotment. His eighty-seven years are not entirely reflected in his body. He’s always been active, not wanting to slow down, always on the go, much to his wife’s concerns. Ever since he retired more than twenty years ago he filled his days, too scared to grind to a halt. If he stopped for a moment he might not start again. Growing old was a privilege, he knew that more than most. When his youngest daughter died he would have swapped places with her without question. But he couldn’t. She was not afforded the privilege of growing old, he often wondered why he was given that luxury. Keeping busy was all he could do.
The day of their anniversary was filled with visits from their children, grandchildren and the most recent additions to their family, which propelled them to great-grandparents status. It had been a busy day, full of love and laughter and not so subtle hints from his concerned children, suggesting he should take it easy. “At your age,” punctuating most of their sentences, as if he needed to be reminded.
I’m lucky to be my age, he thought to himself. It was true that he was finding things harder as the years ticked over but his rebellious attitude to ageing kept him going. Later, after the last of the family had gone and the house was put straight once again, he sank
down in his chair, allowing his body to be enveloped by the tired, worn out cushions. He felt every one of his eighty-seven years today, maybe he would miss the allotment tomorrow. His eyes desperately tried to blink away sleep. His wife reached over, slipped her hand into his and whispered, “Let’s grow old together”.
He sighed contentedly, opened one eye and replied, “We made it love.”
Ageless (Dot and Ken)
Share the passion in our times pause
for we have lived as an open door
welcoming all but few now remain
to sit our table in our domain.
With folded memories, so many now
echoing from a life well lived
in love, such love as we have shared
together and always our emotions bared
to each in truth, an ageless truth
never squandered to that marching bell
of time to live, and time left still.
We walk our garden with scented hues
are blessed to walk the green grass long
to cast our thoughts for we belong
in the sanctity of our being.
We invite all people who glance our way
to sit with love, and gaze the day
and yes to conjure the eternal hope
of sharing this our long lived peace.
Don Magee
Dot and Ken
by Don Magee
THEM:
Dot arched her brow, or what was left of it, and looked at him askance, but with that shy smile
that said familiarity. "Hey you," she exclaimed.
"Hey you back," he said with that crooked look that was a smile, but could have been a pained grimace.
Dot saw the boy, she knew who he was but age had lost the name. So "hey you" took over. Very soon after, she called him "Dave" because that came easily, and she could remember it. Ken didn’t mind so long as he was called something other than "you". And so time fashioned hope, a beginning, and joint expectations as a youthful pageant that would bring them a peace to linger into later life.
HIM:
Ken called her "my girl", yet others earlier in youth described her physical attraction as stunning, and others as a distracted looker. It mattered little to him for he saw the essence of her beauty. He recalled the sylphlike girl with flaxen hair, who ran through the wheat fields, laughed at the sky, and sang with the soft wind rhythm. He saw her thus, and brought to mind the book they both shared and loved, Cider with Rosie. They both trod those same Cotswold fields, the folded hills, tumbled in spirit as youth was inclined before war, and turmoil crashed into their existence. And oh there was an innocence about living then that shaped who they were and what they would become. So childhood friends became, how do you describe the inexorable move from simplicity to a richer vein in relationships? Perhaps we try too much to snapshot the push, that development, but with Dot and Ken it became a shared passion. Ken thought in verse as much as words, and conjured the memory of nostalgia, and the skipping moments that bring to mind in later years the quiet smile of understanding. If Dot could not remember his name it mattered not for she shimmered in his eyes as the springtime girl who danced the maypole in white summer dress. And in the cauldron of a joint life they embodied everything that had value and worth.
HER:
As a boy he had hollow cheeks and a smile that moves the air itself insomuch as others laughed out loud in the avalanche of shared pleasure. She had no answer to the question itself that swam in her memory but would surface from the bowel of her conscience. She knew her attraction but had no eyes save for the boy with the breathless smile who she found was called Ken. He played the violin as life itself, lost in the ambience of an alter self, and how the air moved when he played with an audience looking to the ceiling in wonder. He had no ambition to play as a profession; the shades and speculation for this held no attraction. He was content in his own mastery. If he was gaunt, it was a look that had a time stamp in those rough troubled years. Yet he moved gazelle-like in stride and stealth with a purpose beyond his years.
THEM:
There was no need for chastity if a shared drive moves them both with a joint ambition that outlasts a convention based on shallower norms. They both remembered their first kiss; she brought to that table the sweet scent of lavender, summer flowers and the captivating curves of a female body. The first kiss, finding the technique as noses seemed to get in the way, but once mastered they laughed at the moment of first desire, not quite the splendour in the grass of shared passion. Thus in their autumn years they shared the essence of togetherness, and the sweet joy of sharing a life worth living.
Memories
by Viktoriia Peterson
Susan was staring at a portrait of her parents, who lived a happy long life and died aged 95. Susan remembered beautiful moments from their lives. One day, her mother Maria fell ill with a sore throat. Susan's father, Steve, took such good care of his wife. He gave Mary herbal tea with honey and covered her legs with a blanket. He got up in the middle of the night, taking good care of his wife. Maria also took care of her husband and cooked delicious pies. Most the time my sister and I ate them. The kitchen always smelt of delicious. It smelled of vanilla
and cinnamon. Standing near the portrait of her parents, Susan remembered another funny story from her childhood.
She smiled, husband Robert looked at his wife and said, "Honey, you've been standing near the portrait of your parents for a long time. I'm sorry that they are no more. They were good people. Why are you smiling?"
Susan turned to her husband and laughed out loud as if she were a child again. "You have no idea how many funny stories I remember. Here is one of them: We I was six years old we lived on a ranch in Montana. After breakfast, my mother cleared the table and started to prepare soup for dinner. She always did several things at the same time in order to save time. In addition to housework, my mother worked on her own dairy farm with chickens and cows. I decided to help my mother cook soup. I poured salt and pepper into the bubbling chicken broth then my older sister Maggie called me to play in the yard. I forgot to tell my mom that I salted the broth. We played carefree in the yard with my sister. During dinner, we all sat down at the table. Prayers before dinner as always. Father was hungry and started eating the soup first. Taking a spoonful of soup, he almost choked. He wanted to spit it out but he swallowed. Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
He swallowed and spoke. "No, everything is fine, dear, as always delicious." And he continued to eat.
I tried it but the soup was very salty. I choked with laughter, saying that I was not hungry. I ran out into the
yard with my sister. I said in my sister's ear, "Maybe mom also salted the soup a second time." I chuckled at this.
Mom rarely tasted what she cooked but her food was always delicious.
I understood that it was my fault but I wanted to laugh.
Father finished his soup.
Mom tasted her soup, and, on her face, there was bewilderment. What happened? Why was the soup salty?
After dinner she called me and spoke. "Did you salt the soup too?"
I looked down guiltily and nodded. Mom didn’t punish me, but she didn’t allow me into the kitchen any more....
Our story
Etched on her face and mine, our story,
the story of our journey together,
where love was the key, trust the watchword
and compromise the mainstay.
We were young when our eyes met
and love ignited. In our secret world,
messages passed, risks were taken,
excitement savoured.
Then, enlisted to serve, I went to
a distant land for King and country,
she waited, anxious, hoping, praying.
I returned, wounded; she helped me heal.
they strove to see us part,
we were still too young, they said,
I was not strong enough, rich enough
to care for her, give her all she needed.
doubt abandoned, we chose our way,
escaped, made the commitment.
some said it wouldn’t last.
eight decades on, how wrong!
We have seen it all,
faced challenges, suffered heartbreak,
witnessed changes: profound, unimaginable.
Always grateful for this grace in time.
Our bloodline has passed on,
we will survive in many, children, grandchildren.
Ours is a living story of love and endurance
they are part of it but this story is ours alone.
They must each write their own.
Leela Gautam
Entwined
They stand, arms entwined, emotions secure, history behind
memories of kindred spirits no longer around
they've buried a child, laid soft in the ground.
After austerity, their freedom found love all around.
She holds his arm, touching its wound
wartime experiences, absence abound
then it was over, new times began. Onward, upward,
he holds her arm, remembers the softness, the passionate, warm sounds
when, despite all the sadness, they revived their bond,
first came the daughters, then came the sons, blessed by the fairies or magic wand
a solid, safe home, full of the basics, filled with the joy, a simple life found
out on the moors, hand in hand, with a fiend of a hound
constantly searching and chasing the frond,
till up sprang some pheasants, and up went his arm, bound
to his shotgun, bang went his weapon, a wartime reward
down came the carcasses, feathered, and broad
home with the supper, fresh meat for the crowd
then back on the doorstep, posing, entwined, and laughing aloud.
Alan Grant
Married Couple
We shared our lives for fifty years, now sadly we’re apart,
you needed more than I could give, still part within my heart,
quality times, now we must share, remember all heydays
many special memories of captured, quirky days,
the journey hasn’t ended, meetings still can be - carry on enjoying,
being you and me, so we shall make our visits, a haven from the start,
I’ll carry on that spirit, shared within the heart.
Pamela King
Gran and Grandad Braithwaite
by Laura Sanders
Her dark brown eyes shone like pebbles, into my eyes. I noticed the blue-green veins, coloured like verdigris, were raised almost like veined stilton cheese on the thin, pale white skin, on her hands.
"Yes- you can go for a walk on the beach, if your mummy lets you. Mummy must go with you, though."
"Yes Gran", I said politely. I finished her rhubarb crumble, her speciality.
Grandad then entered the room, his pink braces, brightly protruding, his face grinning. His false teethe, made his words whistle with a shrill note, "You going on the beach then?"
"Yes," I said, "Mummy will come too."
"Good," he replied, "the sea air will do you both good!" His merry eyes and small glasses made him seem like he was peering at me, like Harry Potter, although his brown flat-cap made him appear rustic and kind of comical. Gran and Grandad sat down, holding hands. They always seemed to be in love, for such an old couple. I marvelled at them both, even at the age of six!
"Hello Rosie, me love - have yer got a cuppa for me?"
Gran and Grandad's humble cottage near the beach, always smelt of coal tar soap, Gardenia talc, apple pie, and stewed tea. I loved my Gran and Grandad. Gran - she always wore a clean, yet torn, pinny apron, adorned in bright check pattern. Grandad - always his bright pink braces, flat cap and comical specs.
"C'mon mum!" I grabbed her hand, longing to run onto the sandy beach.
Years later, when I was in my 20s, I was in a local chemist. I saw a bar of coal tar soap. I picked it up and sniffed the clean, fresh smell. It took me straight back, to Gran and Grandad's house, and the years when us grandchildren used to visit them in their humble abode, by the beach.
Alex's poem
Our arms entwined, linked by a simple bond of love,
we prayed that our time together, would be protected from above.
So that we could journey on, through life, safely together,
facing those days of sunny joy and those of harsh, stormy weather.
Sad times we braved, often battered by life's set backs and knocks,
but like a wrestler in the ring, we refused to surrender, to stop.
Today, we prosper, our loving children are not far - nearby.
Our grandchildren and great grandkids, are as numerous as the stars!
We feel so fortunate, and lucky, and content with what we have, so far.
Our aim to see everyone of our family, love, live, thrive, me and grandma.
So fortunate to have had such a long time to share and to hold.
So content to see our family develop and to see life's mysteries unfold.
But I love you my Rosie, you will always be my angel, my rock,
even when we grumble, fall out, our love is still always tops.
As our memories fade through tears and joys, my love to you I still send,
as we travel together onwards, my darling Rosie, to the very, very end.
Laura Sanders
The married couple
Linked together, they proudly stand, carrying the weight of life
they have borne for so long, now etched into their faces and hands.
Aside from their presumed devotion to each other and mutual dependability,
there is the suggestion of autumnal acceptance, perhaps even defiance of their impending
decline, decrepitude, separation and death that will inevitably follow.
Such is the course of our lives that this reminds us of, so emblematic of that slow, long,
horizontal fall. Imperceptible at first it later becomes irrefutably evident,
as our lives inexorably ebb away.
Roger Knight
Portrait of Two
Look into the picture for a portrait of two,
happy and entwined with wisdom.
Their eyes will tell you a lot -
they have a long history of centuries,
and the wisdom given to them by God
in the wrinkles of kindness,
the light of great love.
Look into the picture of the portrait of two,
in smiles and tears - take care
children and grandchildren
pray for them: “God bless!”
Look at those young soul-like stars.
They're a treasure that is unknown to the world.
Viktoriia Peterson
Rosie and Alex Braithwaite: The Married Couple
by John Atkinson
The couple you see standing before you were born on the same day, four years apart. Alex Braithwaite, now 102, laughs recalling how mad the family was about their elopement and how his wife’s aunt consoled his father-in-law by telling him not to worry because the marriage would not last. The attraction between the couple is still obvious. On Monday the child bride and her husband will celebrate their 81st wedding anniversary. They are the longest living married couple, possibly, in the world. Revealing his secrets to his relationship, Mr Braithwaite said, "Get along, compromise, live within your means and be content," before adding, "and let your wife be the boss!"
"Marriage isn’t a lovey-dovey thing for 80 years," Rosie added. “If you think a little bit about what you’re doing and if it’s wrong and he tries to straighten it out, we straighten it out. And if not, you just try to go along with it.” She’s now 98 years old. After leaving their families, they set up home together and Mr Braithwaite continued selling fruit, until in 1938, he opened up his own grocery store. Meanwhile, Mrs Braithwaite stayed at home and raised their family. Five children produced 14 grandchildren and 16 great grandchildren.
"She was a great mother. She raised five children and was a wonderful caretaker."
Today, they still live independently in their cottage on the beach. The affection between the couple is obvious. “He always has his hand on my knee or my hair,” says Rosie, lovingly clutching his old hand, frail and withered, yet still linked with the girl he married 81 years ago.
I hope this painting gives you joy and happiness.
by Donna Turner
“Let’s grow old together,” he said to her in a quiet moment on their wedding day.
“Can’t wait,” she giggled back.
That was how he proposed to her, down on one knee in the stones on the beach she loved. Later it was what he said to her in special moments and lovingly written in birthday, Valentine's and anniversary cards. Ten years… twenty-five years… fifty years together and he
loved her as much as the day they met. Now they are approaching their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. He's chosen a beautiful sapphire
blue glass vase for the roses he’s grown on his allotment. His eighty-seven years are not entirely reflected in his body. He’s always been active, not wanting to slow down, always on the go, much to his wife’s concerns. Ever since he retired more than twenty years ago he filled his days, too scared to grind to a halt. If he stopped for a moment he might not start again. Growing old was a privilege, he knew that more than most. When his youngest daughter died he would have swapped places with her without question. But he couldn’t. She was not afforded the privilege of growing old, he often wondered why he was given that luxury. Keeping busy was all he could do.
The day of their anniversary was filled with visits from their children, grandchildren and the most recent additions to their family, which propelled them to great-grandparents status. It had been a busy day, full of love and laughter and not so subtle hints from his concerned children, suggesting he should take it easy. “At your age,” punctuating most of their sentences, as if he needed to be reminded.
I’m lucky to be my age, he thought to himself. It was true that he was finding things harder as the years ticked over but his rebellious attitude to ageing kept him going. Later, after the last of the family had gone and the house was put straight once again, he sank
down in his chair, allowing his body to be enveloped by the tired, worn out cushions. He felt every one of his eighty-seven years today, maybe he would miss the allotment tomorrow. His eyes desperately tried to blink away sleep. His wife reached over, slipped her hand into his and whispered, “Let’s grow old together”.
He sighed contentedly, opened one eye and replied, “We made it love.”
Ageless (Dot and Ken)
Share the passion in our times pause
for we have lived as an open door
welcoming all but few now remain
to sit our table in our domain.
With folded memories, so many now
echoing from a life well lived
in love, such love as we have shared
together and always our emotions bared
to each in truth, an ageless truth
never squandered to that marching bell
of time to live, and time left still.
We walk our garden with scented hues
are blessed to walk the green grass long
to cast our thoughts for we belong
in the sanctity of our being.
We invite all people who glance our way
to sit with love, and gaze the day
and yes to conjure the eternal hope
of sharing this our long lived peace.
Don Magee
Dot and Ken
by Don Magee
THEM:
Dot arched her brow, or what was left of it, and looked at him askance, but with that shy smile
that said familiarity. "Hey you," she exclaimed.
"Hey you back," he said with that crooked look that was a smile, but could have been a pained grimace.
Dot saw the boy, she knew who he was but age had lost the name. So "hey you" took over. Very soon after, she called him "Dave" because that came easily, and she could remember it. Ken didn’t mind so long as he was called something other than "you". And so time fashioned hope, a beginning, and joint expectations as a youthful pageant that would bring them a peace to linger into later life.
HIM:
Ken called her "my girl", yet others earlier in youth described her physical attraction as stunning, and others as a distracted looker. It mattered little to him for he saw the essence of her beauty. He recalled the sylphlike girl with flaxen hair, who ran through the wheat fields, laughed at the sky, and sang with the soft wind rhythm. He saw her thus, and brought to mind the book they both shared and loved, Cider with Rosie. They both trod those same Cotswold fields, the folded hills, tumbled in spirit as youth was inclined before war, and turmoil crashed into their existence. And oh there was an innocence about living then that shaped who they were and what they would become. So childhood friends became, how do you describe the inexorable move from simplicity to a richer vein in relationships? Perhaps we try too much to snapshot the push, that development, but with Dot and Ken it became a shared passion. Ken thought in verse as much as words, and conjured the memory of nostalgia, and the skipping moments that bring to mind in later years the quiet smile of understanding. If Dot could not remember his name it mattered not for she shimmered in his eyes as the springtime girl who danced the maypole in white summer dress. And in the cauldron of a joint life they embodied everything that had value and worth.
HER:
As a boy he had hollow cheeks and a smile that moves the air itself insomuch as others laughed out loud in the avalanche of shared pleasure. She had no answer to the question itself that swam in her memory but would surface from the bowel of her conscience. She knew her attraction but had no eyes save for the boy with the breathless smile who she found was called Ken. He played the violin as life itself, lost in the ambience of an alter self, and how the air moved when he played with an audience looking to the ceiling in wonder. He had no ambition to play as a profession; the shades and speculation for this held no attraction. He was content in his own mastery. If he was gaunt, it was a look that had a time stamp in those rough troubled years. Yet he moved gazelle-like in stride and stealth with a purpose beyond his years.
THEM:
There was no need for chastity if a shared drive moves them both with a joint ambition that outlasts a convention based on shallower norms. They both remembered their first kiss; she brought to that table the sweet scent of lavender, summer flowers and the captivating curves of a female body. The first kiss, finding the technique as noses seemed to get in the way, but once mastered they laughed at the moment of first desire, not quite the splendour in the grass of shared passion. Thus in their autumn years they shared the essence of togetherness, and the sweet joy of sharing a life worth living.
Memories
by Viktoriia Peterson
Susan was staring at a portrait of her parents, who lived a happy long life and died aged 95. Susan remembered beautiful moments from their lives. One day, her mother Maria fell ill with a sore throat. Susan's father, Steve, took such good care of his wife. He gave Mary herbal tea with honey and covered her legs with a blanket. He got up in the middle of the night, taking good care of his wife. Maria also took care of her husband and cooked delicious pies. Most the time my sister and I ate them. The kitchen always smelt of delicious. It smelled of vanilla
and cinnamon. Standing near the portrait of her parents, Susan remembered another funny story from her childhood.
She smiled, husband Robert looked at his wife and said, "Honey, you've been standing near the portrait of your parents for a long time. I'm sorry that they are no more. They were good people. Why are you smiling?"
Susan turned to her husband and laughed out loud as if she were a child again. "You have no idea how many funny stories I remember. Here is one of them: We I was six years old we lived on a ranch in Montana. After breakfast, my mother cleared the table and started to prepare soup for dinner. She always did several things at the same time in order to save time. In addition to housework, my mother worked on her own dairy farm with chickens and cows. I decided to help my mother cook soup. I poured salt and pepper into the bubbling chicken broth then my older sister Maggie called me to play in the yard. I forgot to tell my mom that I salted the broth. We played carefree in the yard with my sister. During dinner, we all sat down at the table. Prayers before dinner as always. Father was hungry and started eating the soup first. Taking a spoonful of soup, he almost choked. He wanted to spit it out but he swallowed. Mom asked, "What's wrong?"
He swallowed and spoke. "No, everything is fine, dear, as always delicious." And he continued to eat.
I tried it but the soup was very salty. I choked with laughter, saying that I was not hungry. I ran out into the
yard with my sister. I said in my sister's ear, "Maybe mom also salted the soup a second time." I chuckled at this.
Mom rarely tasted what she cooked but her food was always delicious.
I understood that it was my fault but I wanted to laugh.
Father finished his soup.
Mom tasted her soup, and, on her face, there was bewilderment. What happened? Why was the soup salty?
After dinner she called me and spoke. "Did you salt the soup too?"
I looked down guiltily and nodded. Mom didn’t punish me, but she didn’t allow me into the kitchen any more....
Our story
Etched on her face and mine, our story,
the story of our journey together,
where love was the key, trust the watchword
and compromise the mainstay.
We were young when our eyes met
and love ignited. In our secret world,
messages passed, risks were taken,
excitement savoured.
Then, enlisted to serve, I went to
a distant land for King and country,
she waited, anxious, hoping, praying.
I returned, wounded; she helped me heal.
they strove to see us part,
we were still too young, they said,
I was not strong enough, rich enough
to care for her, give her all she needed.
doubt abandoned, we chose our way,
escaped, made the commitment.
some said it wouldn’t last.
eight decades on, how wrong!
We have seen it all,
faced challenges, suffered heartbreak,
witnessed changes: profound, unimaginable.
Always grateful for this grace in time.
Our bloodline has passed on,
we will survive in many, children, grandchildren.
Ours is a living story of love and endurance
they are part of it but this story is ours alone.
They must each write their own.
Leela Gautam
Entwined
They stand, arms entwined, emotions secure, history behind
memories of kindred spirits no longer around
they've buried a child, laid soft in the ground.
After austerity, their freedom found love all around.
She holds his arm, touching its wound
wartime experiences, absence abound
then it was over, new times began. Onward, upward,
he holds her arm, remembers the softness, the passionate, warm sounds
when, despite all the sadness, they revived their bond,
first came the daughters, then came the sons, blessed by the fairies or magic wand
a solid, safe home, full of the basics, filled with the joy, a simple life found
out on the moors, hand in hand, with a fiend of a hound
constantly searching and chasing the frond,
till up sprang some pheasants, and up went his arm, bound
to his shotgun, bang went his weapon, a wartime reward
down came the carcasses, feathered, and broad
home with the supper, fresh meat for the crowd
then back on the doorstep, posing, entwined, and laughing aloud.
Alan Grant
Married Couple
We shared our lives for fifty years, now sadly we’re apart,
you needed more than I could give, still part within my heart,
quality times, now we must share, remember all heydays
many special memories of captured, quirky days,
the journey hasn’t ended, meetings still can be - carry on enjoying,
being you and me, so we shall make our visits, a haven from the start,
I’ll carry on that spirit, shared within the heart.
Pamela King
Gran and Grandad Braithwaite
by Laura Sanders
Her dark brown eyes shone like pebbles, into my eyes. I noticed the blue-green veins, coloured like verdigris, were raised almost like veined stilton cheese on the thin, pale white skin, on her hands.
"Yes- you can go for a walk on the beach, if your mummy lets you. Mummy must go with you, though."
"Yes Gran", I said politely. I finished her rhubarb crumble, her speciality.
Grandad then entered the room, his pink braces, brightly protruding, his face grinning. His false teethe, made his words whistle with a shrill note, "You going on the beach then?"
"Yes," I said, "Mummy will come too."
"Good," he replied, "the sea air will do you both good!" His merry eyes and small glasses made him seem like he was peering at me, like Harry Potter, although his brown flat-cap made him appear rustic and kind of comical. Gran and Grandad sat down, holding hands. They always seemed to be in love, for such an old couple. I marvelled at them both, even at the age of six!
"Hello Rosie, me love - have yer got a cuppa for me?"
Gran and Grandad's humble cottage near the beach, always smelt of coal tar soap, Gardenia talc, apple pie, and stewed tea. I loved my Gran and Grandad. Gran - she always wore a clean, yet torn, pinny apron, adorned in bright check pattern. Grandad - always his bright pink braces, flat cap and comical specs.
"C'mon mum!" I grabbed her hand, longing to run onto the sandy beach.
Years later, when I was in my 20s, I was in a local chemist. I saw a bar of coal tar soap. I picked it up and sniffed the clean, fresh smell. It took me straight back, to Gran and Grandad's house, and the years when us grandchildren used to visit them in their humble abode, by the beach.
Alex's poem
Our arms entwined, linked by a simple bond of love,
we prayed that our time together, would be protected from above.
So that we could journey on, through life, safely together,
facing those days of sunny joy and those of harsh, stormy weather.
Sad times we braved, often battered by life's set backs and knocks,
but like a wrestler in the ring, we refused to surrender, to stop.
Today, we prosper, our loving children are not far - nearby.
Our grandchildren and great grandkids, are as numerous as the stars!
We feel so fortunate, and lucky, and content with what we have, so far.
Our aim to see everyone of our family, love, live, thrive, me and grandma.
So fortunate to have had such a long time to share and to hold.
So content to see our family develop and to see life's mysteries unfold.
But I love you my Rosie, you will always be my angel, my rock,
even when we grumble, fall out, our love is still always tops.
As our memories fade through tears and joys, my love to you I still send,
as we travel together onwards, my darling Rosie, to the very, very end.
Laura Sanders
The married couple
Linked together, they proudly stand, carrying the weight of life
they have borne for so long, now etched into their faces and hands.
Aside from their presumed devotion to each other and mutual dependability,
there is the suggestion of autumnal acceptance, perhaps even defiance of their impending
decline, decrepitude, separation and death that will inevitably follow.
Such is the course of our lives that this reminds us of, so emblematic of that slow, long,
horizontal fall. Imperceptible at first it later becomes irrefutably evident,
as our lives inexorably ebb away.
Roger Knight
Portrait of Two
Look into the picture for a portrait of two,
happy and entwined with wisdom.
Their eyes will tell you a lot -
they have a long history of centuries,
and the wisdom given to them by God
in the wrinkles of kindness,
the light of great love.
Look into the picture of the portrait of two,
in smiles and tears - take care
children and grandchildren
pray for them: “God bless!”
Look at those young soul-like stars.
They're a treasure that is unknown to the world.
Viktoriia Peterson
Rosie and Alex Braithwaite: The Married Couple
by John Atkinson
The couple you see standing before you were born on the same day, four years apart. Alex Braithwaite, now 102, laughs recalling how mad the family was about their elopement and how his wife’s aunt consoled his father-in-law by telling him not to worry because the marriage would not last. The attraction between the couple is still obvious. On Monday the child bride and her husband will celebrate their 81st wedding anniversary. They are the longest living married couple, possibly, in the world. Revealing his secrets to his relationship, Mr Braithwaite said, "Get along, compromise, live within your means and be content," before adding, "and let your wife be the boss!"
"Marriage isn’t a lovey-dovey thing for 80 years," Rosie added. “If you think a little bit about what you’re doing and if it’s wrong and he tries to straighten it out, we straighten it out. And if not, you just try to go along with it.” She’s now 98 years old. After leaving their families, they set up home together and Mr Braithwaite continued selling fruit, until in 1938, he opened up his own grocery store. Meanwhile, Mrs Braithwaite stayed at home and raised their family. Five children produced 14 grandchildren and 16 great grandchildren.
"She was a great mother. She raised five children and was a wonderful caretaker."
Today, they still live independently in their cottage on the beach. The affection between the couple is obvious. “He always has his hand on my knee or my hair,” says Rosie, lovingly clutching his old hand, frail and withered, yet still linked with the girl he married 81 years ago.
I hope this painting gives you joy and happiness.
December 15, 2022
I wonder…
is it a lowland village
far away?
Sledge and cycles abandoned,
shutters closed,
slats dusted with snow,
icicles above and below,
scavenging kites
searching for tasty bites.
Pale shadows thrown by
a weak winter sun.
Are homes cosy and warm?
The local men busy
with wood and blade
crafting beautiful animals
which they can trade,
happy memories for tourists
to take home and treasure.
Maybe the ladies are embroidering
their traditional dresses
with colourful flowers.
Later, on a warm summer day,
dancing with partners
telling their story
for visitors to enjoy.
Margaret Hughes
A Winter in the Forties
Along every street, alley way or path
snow, ice then slush,
no one about,
no way we could rush
except indoors,
running downstairs
to the only warmth to be had,
from the coal fire, lit by Dad.
Some bedroom sash windows,
for weeks, covered in ice,
that formed intricate patterns,
and sealed every space.
Childish illnesses took hold
the only way to beat the cold,
light a fire in my bedroom grate,
for my brother, our cats and me.
When tucked up in bed
one thing in my head,
my treasured old book,
The Land of Poetry –
always first to be read,
“The Lamplighter” by RLS.
Time for sleep, first
Vick rubbed on our chest
thought to be best
to decongest!
Curtains drawn and lights out,
now into a world
of mystical shapes
travelling round the room
cast by flickering flames,
our imagination ran wild.
We invented stories and games,
away with our dreams
as the embers died.
it wasn’t as bad as it seems
you see, we had all our needs.
Margaret Hughes
Let’s go Sledging
by Donna Turner
“It looks like a painting out there.” Mum turns to face me, her back to the window. Glowing white, the freshly fallen snow fills the room. My room. My childhood bedroom, dog-eared posters and all. The irony isn’t lost on me. I couldn’t wait to leave this place. An eager 18 year old full of energy, enthusiasm and an unmeasurable thirst for life. I wanted to do it all, see it all, but 20 years later I
was back home. This wasn’t part of the plan but then I never thought cancer would barge its way into my life like this.
“Come on love, why don’t you get dressed?” she says to me optimistically, hoping my answer would be different from every other morning. “I’ll make your favourite breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, shutting that idea down instantly.
“Ok.” She sounds defeated. “I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa”.
When she’s gone, I pull myself up in bed and glance out of the window. I’m not prepared for the emotion that sweeps through me. Emotion or maybe memory. I’m dragged back to a time in my childhood when the view from my window matched that of today's. I must have been six or seven. School had been cancelled. The day was mine. My Dad was as excited as I was. He came in from his shed, having proudly produced a wooden sledge. His face was a picture, he looked more youthful, his eyes wide with eagerness. This was a side of my Dad we didn’t see very often because he was always busy with work.
“Let’s go sledging!”
And we did, and it was magical. One of the best days of my life. I miss my Dad. I return from my memory and look around my room. Is this how I want to spend my last days? I drag my weakened body out of bed and force on some clothes that hang off my bones. Shakily, I manage to navigate the stairs and continue out into the garden, stopping only to slip on some shoes. I crunch my way through the snow to my Dad's shed. Inside, my eyes search around and finally fall upon what I am looking for. I brush off the cobwebs and emerge once again into the crunchy snow. My mother, spotting me from the kitchen window, comes rushing out.
“My goodness dear, what are you doing?”
“I’m going sledging.”
At the front of the house I set the sledge down and slump my soggy body on it. Mustering all the energy I have left, I launch myself forward, starting on the hill downwards towards the bend. I’m instantly transported back again. I’m that little girl having the best day with her Daddy and a smile breaks out on my weary face for the first time in ages. I decide then, I’m not going down without a fight.
20th Anniversary Christmas card, 2042
Buffalo, New York
Storm Elliot just landed
it's ferocity unexpected
everything abandoned
not a car to be seen
everyone locked in
no food, no power
stay in bed, ten layers on
eat what biscuits left
hope and pray
they'll come to free us
feed us, save us
too many of us
have died already
Maurice Sherlock
Rosebud
by Carl Kjellberg
It was my Dad who named the sled Rosebud and he said it was because of some old black and white movie he loved to watch. In the winter, my younger brother Kane and I would race that thing together down through the village's main street. Old Mrs Huddersfield, who lived half way down the street, was always telling us off. My Mum said it was because she didn't like kids but I think that maybe she was just lonely. I always made a point of saying hello to her whenever I passed by on my bike, but she never replied. Mum and Dad died some years ago and our house was sold. When I last went to see our old house, I found Mrs Huddersfield's place had been bowled and replaced by a department store. The locals called that progress but for some reason it made me feel sad. Kane died of a sudden heart attack just last year and as for Rosebud, I found her in my Dad's shed after the house was sold. I did her up and now she belongs to my grandkids. I guess some things are important and shouldn’t be simply thrown away.
Winter remains
I wipe past my breath,
look through and see
windows framed with icicles,
shimmering in the morning sun.
Below the frozen street, where
days ago we slid and sledged on
virgin snow.
Today, all is still but for the birds,
who must fly to find their feed.
The big freeze has been.
Wrapped in the warmth of my
eiderdown, I return to bed and
sip a hot drink with gratitude.
Soon nature will take charge,
the sun will shine, the wind blow,
and the rain wash it all away.
Time yet for spring. Winter remains.
Leela Gautam
Street Feet
a play by Alan Grant
(who used to work with street beggars)
EXT. SHOP DOORWAY ON AFFLUENT LONDON STREET - DAY
Throughout, the view is of the lower half of the doorway, with
only the legs and feet of most characters visible.
Beneath the CLOSED sign lies a battered sleeping bag, other
bags and a forlorn Collie dog, MUTT.
DEAN (40s), a homeless man, scours the immediate vicinity, picking up discarded cigarette ends. He spots a large cardboard box, and breaks it down into a flat pack. Putting the cardboard on the doorway floor, Dean sits down on it then pulls a sign from his bag and props it in front of his feet, putting an old blanket next to him on which Mutt tries to sit. Dean pulls her to him. The sign at his feet reads: “Army-Veteran. I fought for my cuntry” (sic) “Help me, in my hour of need.”
DEAN
(to Mutt)
That cardboard will keep us warm,
Mutt. Lucky find.
Dean checks his mobile phone anxiously, then breaks down the discarded cigarette ends, and moves the residual tobacco into
a cigarette paper, which he seals and lights. He watches the feet of various people passing his location without responding. Some throw coins on the blanket as they pass, others ignore him.
DEAN
I look at their feet, when I'm sat on the street, a cardboard cushion easing the pain of sitting legs crossed, eyes down, no frown, looking down at the ankles of those walking past, whilst sitting and waiting for a tinkling plate. No looking up, no looking in,
don't let the person see you grin. No bingo game this, with eyes down, line and house. My line costs ten quid, and no house in sight, but now it's gone quiet.
Dean checks the blanket.
Not enough to stop feeling wrecked.
(beat)
Hang on.
New feet arrive, a COUPLE pause.
DEAN
Nice polished brogues, and high heels with bare toes, all brightly painted, like my hopes and dreams. Coins tumble onto his blanket as the couple walk away. Dean looks down.
DEAN
Bastards it's foreign, just 100 yen. Try changing that at my street exchange. What's wrong with dollars, or Euros or pounds? I'm the one sitting with my arse on the ground.
(beat)
Hang on a minute new shoes in sight.
She's got old swollen feet with ankles quite wide. Please rest a moment then open that purse. Cascade your love down onto my plate.
The ELDERLY WOMAN pauses then leans towards Dean. She mouths words then moves on.
DEAN
Yet all I can hear are words full of hate. Snide curses above, I'm hers to berate. I know I'm a totally useless
shit, but once I was innocent, sucking on tit, bonding with mother, not full of nits like my dog alongside me.
(beat)
It's shivering, it's going to rain, time to consider shall I increase the pain. Look more pathetic as hordes pass me by?
A PASSER BY throws object onto the blanket.
DEAN
Hang on a minute I've just got a pie, only half eaten, better than nowt.
Mutt moves and snatches the pie off the blanket.
DEAN
My dog's bloody started, there's crust on her snout... Oh, let her have it, my time will come.
(beat)
Jesus it's cold, it's right up my bum. My cardboard converter is less than my thumb.
Dean pulls up the hood on his anorak.
DEAN
Here comes a copper, a real PC Plod.
A UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICER approaches. He stops, pauses, before moving on.
DEAN
Keep bleeding moving you useless great sod. That's what I think but I give him a grin, cos his beat’s nearly over and he don't want me in.
(beat)
Hang on. Here's trouble.
A MALE PERSON, mid twenties, approaches Dean. He is wearing an immaculate business suit, and a Santa hat. Unsteady on his
feet, stumbling and drunk.
DEAN
He's looking for frolics and fun, whilst I'm peering up with no clear retreat. Look at his ankles and bloody great feet.
The male person lashes out with Chelsea boots. Dean puts his arms up protectively, leans away and tries to get up.
DEAN
So I move to one side as his kick comes right in. My brain is more tricky than fixing my chin, and I've always liked soup through a cup and straw.
The male person falls backward onto the pavement, and collapses in a heap. Dean gets up and looks down. Mutt approaches the man GROWLING. Dean pulls her backward.
DEAN
As he falls on his arse pissed as a fart, if his foot hit my chest it would stop my weak heart. Bastard. Dean’s mobile phone RINGS. He pulls it from a pocket.
DEAN
Hello? Yeah that's me. How many nights? I've got a dog.
(Beat)
I'm on my way. Thanks mate.
Dean collects his belongings and empties the blanket,
pocketing the contents.
DEAN
(to the dog)
Well Mutt, we've got a couple of nights at the hostel and a kennel for you. Hot food, a shower and clean clothes. Yahooo.
He pulls the drunken male into the vacant shop doorway, puts the Santa hat on himself, then walks away with Mutt on a lead.
After a moment, more PASSERS-BY throw coins alongside the drunk.
Street Feet
by Alan Grant
I look at their feet, when I'm sat on the street, a cardboard cushion easing the pain
of sitting, legs crossed, eyes down, no frown, looking down at the ankles of those walking
past, whilst sitting and waiting for a tinkling plate
no looking up, no looking in, don't let the person see you grin
no bingo game this, eyes down, line and house
my line costs ten quid, and no house in sight, but now it's gone quiet, so slyly just check
enough on the blanket to stop feeling wrecked? New feet arrive; nice polished brogues
next to his leather, high heels with bare toes, all brightly painted, like my hopes and
dreams
Then down come the coins, and they walk on again, bastards it's foreign - just 100 yen!
Try changing that at my street exchange, what's wrong with dollars, or Euros or pounds?
I'm the one sitting with my arse on the ground! Hang on a moment, new shoes in sight
old swollen feet, with ankles quite wide, please rest a moment, then open that purse
cascade your love down onto my plate, yet all I can hear are words full of hate
snide curses above, I'm hers to berate, I know I’m a totally useless shit,
but once I was innocent, sucking on tit, bonding with mother, not full of nits, like
my dog alongside me, which shivers - It's rain, time to consider;
shall I increase the pain? Look more pathetic, as hordes pass me by
hang on a minute I've just got a pie, only half eaten, better than nowt
my dog's bloody started, there's crust on her snout!
Oh let her have it, my time will come, Jesus it's cold, it's right up my bum,
my cardboard converter is less than my thumb, so pull up the hood and cover the dog
here comes a copper, a real PC Plod. He stands and he stares then he gives me a nod
keep bleeding moving you useless great sod. That's what I think, but I give him a grin
cos his beat's nearly over, and he don't want me in.
But the next one is looking for frolics and fun, whilst I, peering down, with no clear retreat
look at his ankles and bloody great feet, doctor by nature, Dr Martens,
strapped up and ready, up to his shins, so I move to one side as his kicks coming in
my brain is more tricky than fixing my chin and, I've always liked soup through a cup and a
straw, but....
ss he falls on his arse, pissed as a fart, his boot hits my chest, and stops my poor heart.
The Big Freeze
My, but it’s cold out there
what am I going to wear?
I’ve got to wrap up warm
it’s definitely got to be boots
with a tread, there will be lots
of slipping and sliding and at
eighty you have to be very fearful
of falling and breaking your hip
or you might slip and bang your
head. The one thing I dread is going
to emergency and accident
where will you be sent, if you’re
lucky, to a fracture clinic. I know
I’m a cynic but I have not got a
a lot of faith these days in our
National Health Service which I
know has been bled of resources
but the following course is a simple
procedure what used to be called a
a minor operation unless you are
there for the duration and then it
might be considered major and who
is there at home that will tend to your
needs? You will block the bed that is
needed for any other, it might even be
your mother who has fallen as a result
of a slip on the ice and that would be
twice there had been a yell to Hatfield
Peverel. Where will it all end?
Benny Cardwell
Winter's Arrival
From summer's softened mellow skies
through autumn's darkening shadows pale
falls winter's wind fuelled harshness bright,
as cold the angled shapes bare sharp
with barren trees as broken hopes
incomparably stencilled line by line.
Now slowly wafts the blossom snow
drifts to shapes that cover what
lingered in those village streets where
cradled fronts arched folding drifts
where gathered snow billows out
lit yellow with soft glowing gloss
jettisoned from cradled windows near
the harbouring alcoves locked in cold.
Simplicity sat that village scene
a peace became the day drop start
as silence bathed activities yet
to announce themselves in friendship glove.
And in my mind’s eye the village became
the memory held but shuttered away,
now spilling out as coloured scenes
of recognition, such that I knew
bathed the senses, a nostalgic hue
from past December's childhood thoughts,
long stored, yet delivered clear as glass
the fresh view of that frozen scene.
Don Magee
The Antique Shop
by Don Magee
I just loved this month's picture prompt!
William Sharpe stood tall, the window to front, the log glowing fierce to rear; he stood silent, drink in hand, contemplating the simplicity of the outside view. It is seldom in our life’s journey we are presented in image or sound the aspect of our dreams, our
present, and reality together. All of these came as a tsunami of emotion to William when he first saw the painting. To him it was not ‘The Big Freeze’ but his village, his youth’s experience, his mature aspirations, and where he was now glancing. Turning, he gazed through the window. Time travels but at that moment it paralleled a pause of happiness, and memory became his peace as a quiet smile sat on his face, his head nodding gently to the carol chorus billowing down the street outside.
William owned an antique shop that he perceived sat demonstrably, yet quietly in that village painting. The brown sign, just discernible at the angle, but definitely there. He had long cherished the painting, obtained a copy, the original outside his antique price range. It sat squarely over his fireplace, such that he could glance, with ruffled smile as time passed. Outside the snow fluffed the window, shifting and sliding in the downy rifting wind. He saw in the painting his own village, solitary in its pristine aspect, not small, not large but history cherished the
buildings, the cobbled side streets that meandered into the folded hills.
He wanted the Christmas card tradition displaying carriages, yule time actions, neighbours, friends in olden dress style, so he cast his eye to the far street slope and imagined the dancing snowdrops, the women in long dresses with hat pins gliding carefully, bypassing the drifts, a man with long coat and gaiters pulling a child on a sledge, and a carriage with two horses halted, the exaltation of breath fogging the air. And to his view came the choristers in long coats, high hats, lanterns held with yellow cast beams, small children kicking snow, young women with opera pitch smiling the notes through the hoar mist.
This was the simplicity sought with his antique shop. He was wealthy from the cauldron of city finance, took no solace from this for he had at last found contemplative peace far away from commerce’s demands, and the internecine warfare commensurate with success. He looked above the fireplace and saw the bevelled tree, knotted and bare, the winding road and the chilled lamppost as a silent guardian. He smiled, and thus he stood, head high as he sipped his cherry brandy.
The Big Freeze
The numbing bitter cold has expunged all life from the street.
Frozen out, the vibrant interaction that once graced this village is now in deep freeze,
in wintry exile.
The shuttered houses, the abandoned toboggan suggest surrender to the conquering
force of nature.
Where lurks now the once beating heart of this seemingly absent community?
Dispersed afar, or confined to some enforced hibernation, as though its residents
are sitting out a wintry siege?
Roger Knight
Cold Christmas
The windscreen is covered in ice I must clear
and driving down the road
I must be careful to steer
...oh, it's bitterly cold, can't feel my fingers.
Somehow, it seems different this year
memories of loved ones not present
circulate round here
of John and us down the pub drinking beer
enjoying each other's company
and feeling good cheer
got to enjoy it no matter what
dig deep for the good times to reappear
family times to be cherished
for you and me, my dear
but we live in challenging times
war, famine and illness are rife, such fear
death is all around us
it always feels so near
then there are the depressing tragedies
occurring around Christmas causing many a tear
but we owe it to each other to relax
and pray for a better year.
TA Saunders
Comfort and joy
By Dan Boylan
The log fire gave off a warm glow as the biting wind swirled and howled outside. The three young sisters stood by the door, swathed in woollen hats and scarves; their faces wreathed in scowls at the prospect of venturing out on such an evening.
“We don’t want to go,” announced the youngest.
“I know,” said Mrs Rogers, fastening her coat.
“It’s cold, it’ll be cold in church.”
“I know. It’s a village tradition and everyone goes to the carol service on Christmas Eve. Blow the lamp out, it’s time to go.”
They stepped outside, into the cold blackout, snow flurries curling around their bare knees and ears. The girls stepped out in front, heads bowed, the old lady trying to keep up. She caught snippets of conversation before it was whipped away on the wind...
"I want Mummy, where is she...?"
"....she’s gone to Jesus..."
"...when are we going home...?"
"...we have no home, it’s been blown to bits..."
"...I don’t like living at the old widow woman’s house..."
"...we have to stay with her, or they’ll split us up, then we might not see each other again... Daddy will come for us one day... so stop moaning..."
They scurried around dark street corners, up side-alleys and across the cobbled square towards the old church. A sidesman directed the sisters to the children’s bench and the old lady to an already crowded adult pew. Candles flickered every time the great door opened, someone coughed and across the aisle a middle aged woman softly wept. The old woman shuffled along the pew and nodded to a faintly familiar face; the woman pointed to the girls and asked, "Are they your granddaughters?"
"Evacuees, from London, mother was killed by a flying bomb a couple of weeks ago, their father is serving with the Army in Africa. Youngest is six, oldest nine. I was asked to take ’em in for a few days... last month... dunno what I’m to do with 'em.”
"Tsk. I ask you!"
The old organ groaned into life, the choir stood, and the congregation joined in the singing of O little town of Bethlehem. The old woman looked to the girls and saw them silent, heads bowed and holding hands. She could only feel an immense sadness for them. She might have told them of her husband, recently departed, or of her own son, serving on Atlantic convoys but they would be too young to understand her grief and apprehension. She would do as she had always done, keep her sorrow and her fears for the boy to herself; she would save her tears for the privacy of her bedroom. The unexpected arrival of the sisters had shaken her
from her grieving and filled her days with their weeping and heartache. She pulled out her hanky and dabbed her eyes.
They sang Away in a manger and a sidesman read the first lesson; then Hark the herald angels sing but she watched the girls thinking of their downward stares and silence. The ancient priest climbed the pulpit and delivered the Nativity story and the birth of the Saviour. He spoke of hope for the future when the fighting had finished. Still their heads hung low, their childish voices emitting the occasional sob. Eventually, the service came to an end and the priest wished everyone a joyous Christmas and prosperous New Year; the congregation stood and shuffled towards the door and the old woman fell in behind the three girls. Snow now gently falling, the sisters held hands as they walked back to the house in silence, deep in thought and saddened perhaps by the unlikely prospect of a joyous Christmas. They waited as the old woman recovered the key, unlocked the door and bid them enter. In the darkness, she had them stand on the door mat as she removed the globe of the oil lamp, struck a match and touched the wick. As she replaced the globe, a golden light spilled across the room as the oldest girl let out a shriek, "Daddy!" and flew across to the corner where the
soldier sat in the rocking chair, nursing a heavily bandaged wrist. He held his three daughters in a painful embrace, the old woman filled the kettle and stood it in the fireplace and busied herself with the tea caddy. At length, the soldier spoke, "Sorry for all the fuss Missus, your neighbour let me in, hope you don’t mind. I hope the girls haven’t caused you any problems. I’m on sick leave but I
doubt they’ll take me back with this," and he held up his hand. "I’ve brought some Army rations and some fresh fruit, enough to make us a nice Christmas dinner... and we’ll all be staying here, for as long as you will have us Mrs Rogers."
Sledge ride
Come scramble onto my sledge and we'll slide,
it's the most exhilarating fun way, to ride!
Gliding on snow and ice, holding on tight,
position yourself carefully, balance your body, just right!
We'll speed past others, in this fast toboggan race,
feel the crisp, fresh air tingle, on your rosy, red face!
Past houses and homes, with cheery lights in windows,
past trees and walls, covered in soft velvet snow.
Past street lamps, porches and Harry the postman,
past a garden, containing a smiling , winter snowman.
Faster and faster, we travel, as snow melts to ice,
we wish it would snow every day - wouldn't that be nice!
For soon the sun rays, melt our toboggan slipway,
and the snow soon fades and it's just another ordinary day!
Laura Sanders
The fall
by Laura Sanders
The blue lights flashed intermittently, on the frosted window panes, of my humble red-bricked abode. I drew the curtains and sighed... what a day! At first, when I had looked out, the village scene looked beautiful - like a wintry Christmas card, rows of sleepy cottages lay blanketed in soft snow. Bright, cheery lights twinkled out of windows, trees sparkled, doused in a fur of white. Everything appeared to look clean, fresh, bright. Soon kids emerged, pulling sledges and toboggans, or plastic bags, anything they could sit on and slide down the hill of the main village street. Many folk came outside, to have snowball fights, or build jolly-faced snowmen, it was such fun! The usually quiet village, came alive, as people greeted one another, saying "Hi, it's snowed!"
However, that same night, the temperatures plummeted to -6 and the village street became an ice rink overnight - slippery and icy.
Anyone foolhardy enough to step onto the road, could risk a tumble or fall. It soon looked eerie and sinister, a few children were out on sledges, but mainly it looked deserted, as the ice began to look like clear glass at the sides of the street. The main street had been
made skiddy and slippery from the constant toboggan racing. Then, I spotted her, old Mrs Groasby from a few doors away. She was in her mid seventies and had always been sprightly and active, for her age. She emerged holding a cheery, flowery shopping bag, the General stores were not far, just a few doors away. I guessed, she must have run out of provisions - milk or bread. She proceeded
to walk tiny steps, like a child taking its first steps, her daughter holding her arm. They both looked a bit worried and had anxious smiles on their faces. They tried to stick to the snowy areas but ice had collected at the sides where snow had thawed and so
it happened. She collapsed. Down she went, shrieking at the same time. Her daughter screamed, "Mum!" The kid on his sledge, got off and ran towards them, then ran to fetch his parents. I saw her, Mrs Groasby, wince, as her daughter snatched at her mobile phone, to ring 999. I shoved my feet into snow boots, grabbed a blanket and headed towards the door. Other folk were now
coming outside and a small crowd gathered around the unfortunate pair. Mrs Groasby said she thought she had broken her wrist.
Mr Lampard , one of the crowd, said, the nurses were on strike and it could affect the ambulance services... I covered Mrs Groasby with a pink blanket. Suddenly an ambulance crept around a corner cautiously, blue light flashing. How grateful we all felt, and relieved when two paramedics got out. It had all happened so quickly... a stretcher on which Mrs Groasby lay was carried into the back. I thought of the winter scene that looked so lovely one minute, could turn to something sinister and treacherous, the next. A ghastly iced up village , ambulance light flashing, an abandoned sledge, people gossiping about the accident, how different it all seemed now.
I picked up the pink blanket from the icy snow. Mrs Groasby was taken to hospital with her daughter in the back, with her. So much for the winter Christmas card scene, of a sleepy village in the snow.
Frosty Street
Winter... The whole street is covered in snow
fluffy, light, soft.
I can't look away
the frosty street
from this snowy fairy tale...
Snowdrifts, heaps of snow
suddenly appear everywhere...
icicles and snowflakes.
It's like a fairy tale miracle!
I'll walk down the frosty street
in the corner, beloved asleep,
I succumb to winter
inspired with miracles...
Time is no longer in a hurry,
only snow circles around me,
granting God's Grace...
I'll walk down the frosty street.
Viktoriia Peterson
The story behind The Big Freeze
by Tom Cotcher
I wandered into an art gallery in Wimbledon Village on a sunny Sunday circa 1976 (the very very hot one) on their opening day.
Why?... they were offering free wine of course! When asked which was my favourite painting, without hesitation I pointed to one of the smallest in the exhibition. It was also the only black and white on offer : an early evening snow scene .
Back then I knew absolutely nothing about what was good art and what wasn't (I still don't).
I simply just enjoyed looking...a 'hobby' I have to this day.
But I was delighted to be told that I had picked their only Lowry!!!
Since that moment snow scenes have always fascinated me...they create a deep and silent atmosphere that is seldom seen or felt in any other paintings of a seasonal nature..
And so it came to pass that as an artist many many moons later, that whenever I look at a blank canvas wondering what it will eventually produce, I often wander down the snowy village roads of my imagination. Thus THE BIG FREEZE.
is it a lowland village
far away?
Sledge and cycles abandoned,
shutters closed,
slats dusted with snow,
icicles above and below,
scavenging kites
searching for tasty bites.
Pale shadows thrown by
a weak winter sun.
Are homes cosy and warm?
The local men busy
with wood and blade
crafting beautiful animals
which they can trade,
happy memories for tourists
to take home and treasure.
Maybe the ladies are embroidering
their traditional dresses
with colourful flowers.
Later, on a warm summer day,
dancing with partners
telling their story
for visitors to enjoy.
Margaret Hughes
A Winter in the Forties
Along every street, alley way or path
snow, ice then slush,
no one about,
no way we could rush
except indoors,
running downstairs
to the only warmth to be had,
from the coal fire, lit by Dad.
Some bedroom sash windows,
for weeks, covered in ice,
that formed intricate patterns,
and sealed every space.
Childish illnesses took hold
the only way to beat the cold,
light a fire in my bedroom grate,
for my brother, our cats and me.
When tucked up in bed
one thing in my head,
my treasured old book,
The Land of Poetry –
always first to be read,
“The Lamplighter” by RLS.
Time for sleep, first
Vick rubbed on our chest
thought to be best
to decongest!
Curtains drawn and lights out,
now into a world
of mystical shapes
travelling round the room
cast by flickering flames,
our imagination ran wild.
We invented stories and games,
away with our dreams
as the embers died.
it wasn’t as bad as it seems
you see, we had all our needs.
Margaret Hughes
Let’s go Sledging
by Donna Turner
“It looks like a painting out there.” Mum turns to face me, her back to the window. Glowing white, the freshly fallen snow fills the room. My room. My childhood bedroom, dog-eared posters and all. The irony isn’t lost on me. I couldn’t wait to leave this place. An eager 18 year old full of energy, enthusiasm and an unmeasurable thirst for life. I wanted to do it all, see it all, but 20 years later I
was back home. This wasn’t part of the plan but then I never thought cancer would barge its way into my life like this.
“Come on love, why don’t you get dressed?” she says to me optimistically, hoping my answer would be different from every other morning. “I’ll make your favourite breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, shutting that idea down instantly.
“Ok.” She sounds defeated. “I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa”.
When she’s gone, I pull myself up in bed and glance out of the window. I’m not prepared for the emotion that sweeps through me. Emotion or maybe memory. I’m dragged back to a time in my childhood when the view from my window matched that of today's. I must have been six or seven. School had been cancelled. The day was mine. My Dad was as excited as I was. He came in from his shed, having proudly produced a wooden sledge. His face was a picture, he looked more youthful, his eyes wide with eagerness. This was a side of my Dad we didn’t see very often because he was always busy with work.
“Let’s go sledging!”
And we did, and it was magical. One of the best days of my life. I miss my Dad. I return from my memory and look around my room. Is this how I want to spend my last days? I drag my weakened body out of bed and force on some clothes that hang off my bones. Shakily, I manage to navigate the stairs and continue out into the garden, stopping only to slip on some shoes. I crunch my way through the snow to my Dad's shed. Inside, my eyes search around and finally fall upon what I am looking for. I brush off the cobwebs and emerge once again into the crunchy snow. My mother, spotting me from the kitchen window, comes rushing out.
“My goodness dear, what are you doing?”
“I’m going sledging.”
At the front of the house I set the sledge down and slump my soggy body on it. Mustering all the energy I have left, I launch myself forward, starting on the hill downwards towards the bend. I’m instantly transported back again. I’m that little girl having the best day with her Daddy and a smile breaks out on my weary face for the first time in ages. I decide then, I’m not going down without a fight.
20th Anniversary Christmas card, 2042
Buffalo, New York
Storm Elliot just landed
it's ferocity unexpected
everything abandoned
not a car to be seen
everyone locked in
no food, no power
stay in bed, ten layers on
eat what biscuits left
hope and pray
they'll come to free us
feed us, save us
too many of us
have died already
Maurice Sherlock
Rosebud
by Carl Kjellberg
It was my Dad who named the sled Rosebud and he said it was because of some old black and white movie he loved to watch. In the winter, my younger brother Kane and I would race that thing together down through the village's main street. Old Mrs Huddersfield, who lived half way down the street, was always telling us off. My Mum said it was because she didn't like kids but I think that maybe she was just lonely. I always made a point of saying hello to her whenever I passed by on my bike, but she never replied. Mum and Dad died some years ago and our house was sold. When I last went to see our old house, I found Mrs Huddersfield's place had been bowled and replaced by a department store. The locals called that progress but for some reason it made me feel sad. Kane died of a sudden heart attack just last year and as for Rosebud, I found her in my Dad's shed after the house was sold. I did her up and now she belongs to my grandkids. I guess some things are important and shouldn’t be simply thrown away.
Winter remains
I wipe past my breath,
look through and see
windows framed with icicles,
shimmering in the morning sun.
Below the frozen street, where
days ago we slid and sledged on
virgin snow.
Today, all is still but for the birds,
who must fly to find their feed.
The big freeze has been.
Wrapped in the warmth of my
eiderdown, I return to bed and
sip a hot drink with gratitude.
Soon nature will take charge,
the sun will shine, the wind blow,
and the rain wash it all away.
Time yet for spring. Winter remains.
Leela Gautam
Street Feet
a play by Alan Grant
(who used to work with street beggars)
EXT. SHOP DOORWAY ON AFFLUENT LONDON STREET - DAY
Throughout, the view is of the lower half of the doorway, with
only the legs and feet of most characters visible.
Beneath the CLOSED sign lies a battered sleeping bag, other
bags and a forlorn Collie dog, MUTT.
DEAN (40s), a homeless man, scours the immediate vicinity, picking up discarded cigarette ends. He spots a large cardboard box, and breaks it down into a flat pack. Putting the cardboard on the doorway floor, Dean sits down on it then pulls a sign from his bag and props it in front of his feet, putting an old blanket next to him on which Mutt tries to sit. Dean pulls her to him. The sign at his feet reads: “Army-Veteran. I fought for my cuntry” (sic) “Help me, in my hour of need.”
DEAN
(to Mutt)
That cardboard will keep us warm,
Mutt. Lucky find.
Dean checks his mobile phone anxiously, then breaks down the discarded cigarette ends, and moves the residual tobacco into
a cigarette paper, which he seals and lights. He watches the feet of various people passing his location without responding. Some throw coins on the blanket as they pass, others ignore him.
DEAN
I look at their feet, when I'm sat on the street, a cardboard cushion easing the pain of sitting legs crossed, eyes down, no frown, looking down at the ankles of those walking past, whilst sitting and waiting for a tinkling plate. No looking up, no looking in,
don't let the person see you grin. No bingo game this, with eyes down, line and house. My line costs ten quid, and no house in sight, but now it's gone quiet.
Dean checks the blanket.
Not enough to stop feeling wrecked.
(beat)
Hang on.
New feet arrive, a COUPLE pause.
DEAN
Nice polished brogues, and high heels with bare toes, all brightly painted, like my hopes and dreams. Coins tumble onto his blanket as the couple walk away. Dean looks down.
DEAN
Bastards it's foreign, just 100 yen. Try changing that at my street exchange. What's wrong with dollars, or Euros or pounds? I'm the one sitting with my arse on the ground.
(beat)
Hang on a minute new shoes in sight.
She's got old swollen feet with ankles quite wide. Please rest a moment then open that purse. Cascade your love down onto my plate.
The ELDERLY WOMAN pauses then leans towards Dean. She mouths words then moves on.
DEAN
Yet all I can hear are words full of hate. Snide curses above, I'm hers to berate. I know I'm a totally useless
shit, but once I was innocent, sucking on tit, bonding with mother, not full of nits like my dog alongside me.
(beat)
It's shivering, it's going to rain, time to consider shall I increase the pain. Look more pathetic as hordes pass me by?
A PASSER BY throws object onto the blanket.
DEAN
Hang on a minute I've just got a pie, only half eaten, better than nowt.
Mutt moves and snatches the pie off the blanket.
DEAN
My dog's bloody started, there's crust on her snout... Oh, let her have it, my time will come.
(beat)
Jesus it's cold, it's right up my bum. My cardboard converter is less than my thumb.
Dean pulls up the hood on his anorak.
DEAN
Here comes a copper, a real PC Plod.
A UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICER approaches. He stops, pauses, before moving on.
DEAN
Keep bleeding moving you useless great sod. That's what I think but I give him a grin, cos his beat’s nearly over and he don't want me in.
(beat)
Hang on. Here's trouble.
A MALE PERSON, mid twenties, approaches Dean. He is wearing an immaculate business suit, and a Santa hat. Unsteady on his
feet, stumbling and drunk.
DEAN
He's looking for frolics and fun, whilst I'm peering up with no clear retreat. Look at his ankles and bloody great feet.
The male person lashes out with Chelsea boots. Dean puts his arms up protectively, leans away and tries to get up.
DEAN
So I move to one side as his kick comes right in. My brain is more tricky than fixing my chin, and I've always liked soup through a cup and straw.
The male person falls backward onto the pavement, and collapses in a heap. Dean gets up and looks down. Mutt approaches the man GROWLING. Dean pulls her backward.
DEAN
As he falls on his arse pissed as a fart, if his foot hit my chest it would stop my weak heart. Bastard. Dean’s mobile phone RINGS. He pulls it from a pocket.
DEAN
Hello? Yeah that's me. How many nights? I've got a dog.
(Beat)
I'm on my way. Thanks mate.
Dean collects his belongings and empties the blanket,
pocketing the contents.
DEAN
(to the dog)
Well Mutt, we've got a couple of nights at the hostel and a kennel for you. Hot food, a shower and clean clothes. Yahooo.
He pulls the drunken male into the vacant shop doorway, puts the Santa hat on himself, then walks away with Mutt on a lead.
After a moment, more PASSERS-BY throw coins alongside the drunk.
Street Feet
by Alan Grant
I look at their feet, when I'm sat on the street, a cardboard cushion easing the pain
of sitting, legs crossed, eyes down, no frown, looking down at the ankles of those walking
past, whilst sitting and waiting for a tinkling plate
no looking up, no looking in, don't let the person see you grin
no bingo game this, eyes down, line and house
my line costs ten quid, and no house in sight, but now it's gone quiet, so slyly just check
enough on the blanket to stop feeling wrecked? New feet arrive; nice polished brogues
next to his leather, high heels with bare toes, all brightly painted, like my hopes and
dreams
Then down come the coins, and they walk on again, bastards it's foreign - just 100 yen!
Try changing that at my street exchange, what's wrong with dollars, or Euros or pounds?
I'm the one sitting with my arse on the ground! Hang on a moment, new shoes in sight
old swollen feet, with ankles quite wide, please rest a moment, then open that purse
cascade your love down onto my plate, yet all I can hear are words full of hate
snide curses above, I'm hers to berate, I know I’m a totally useless shit,
but once I was innocent, sucking on tit, bonding with mother, not full of nits, like
my dog alongside me, which shivers - It's rain, time to consider;
shall I increase the pain? Look more pathetic, as hordes pass me by
hang on a minute I've just got a pie, only half eaten, better than nowt
my dog's bloody started, there's crust on her snout!
Oh let her have it, my time will come, Jesus it's cold, it's right up my bum,
my cardboard converter is less than my thumb, so pull up the hood and cover the dog
here comes a copper, a real PC Plod. He stands and he stares then he gives me a nod
keep bleeding moving you useless great sod. That's what I think, but I give him a grin
cos his beat's nearly over, and he don't want me in.
But the next one is looking for frolics and fun, whilst I, peering down, with no clear retreat
look at his ankles and bloody great feet, doctor by nature, Dr Martens,
strapped up and ready, up to his shins, so I move to one side as his kicks coming in
my brain is more tricky than fixing my chin and, I've always liked soup through a cup and a
straw, but....
ss he falls on his arse, pissed as a fart, his boot hits my chest, and stops my poor heart.
The Big Freeze
My, but it’s cold out there
what am I going to wear?
I’ve got to wrap up warm
it’s definitely got to be boots
with a tread, there will be lots
of slipping and sliding and at
eighty you have to be very fearful
of falling and breaking your hip
or you might slip and bang your
head. The one thing I dread is going
to emergency and accident
where will you be sent, if you’re
lucky, to a fracture clinic. I know
I’m a cynic but I have not got a
a lot of faith these days in our
National Health Service which I
know has been bled of resources
but the following course is a simple
procedure what used to be called a
a minor operation unless you are
there for the duration and then it
might be considered major and who
is there at home that will tend to your
needs? You will block the bed that is
needed for any other, it might even be
your mother who has fallen as a result
of a slip on the ice and that would be
twice there had been a yell to Hatfield
Peverel. Where will it all end?
Benny Cardwell
Winter's Arrival
From summer's softened mellow skies
through autumn's darkening shadows pale
falls winter's wind fuelled harshness bright,
as cold the angled shapes bare sharp
with barren trees as broken hopes
incomparably stencilled line by line.
Now slowly wafts the blossom snow
drifts to shapes that cover what
lingered in those village streets where
cradled fronts arched folding drifts
where gathered snow billows out
lit yellow with soft glowing gloss
jettisoned from cradled windows near
the harbouring alcoves locked in cold.
Simplicity sat that village scene
a peace became the day drop start
as silence bathed activities yet
to announce themselves in friendship glove.
And in my mind’s eye the village became
the memory held but shuttered away,
now spilling out as coloured scenes
of recognition, such that I knew
bathed the senses, a nostalgic hue
from past December's childhood thoughts,
long stored, yet delivered clear as glass
the fresh view of that frozen scene.
Don Magee
The Antique Shop
by Don Magee
I just loved this month's picture prompt!
William Sharpe stood tall, the window to front, the log glowing fierce to rear; he stood silent, drink in hand, contemplating the simplicity of the outside view. It is seldom in our life’s journey we are presented in image or sound the aspect of our dreams, our
present, and reality together. All of these came as a tsunami of emotion to William when he first saw the painting. To him it was not ‘The Big Freeze’ but his village, his youth’s experience, his mature aspirations, and where he was now glancing. Turning, he gazed through the window. Time travels but at that moment it paralleled a pause of happiness, and memory became his peace as a quiet smile sat on his face, his head nodding gently to the carol chorus billowing down the street outside.
William owned an antique shop that he perceived sat demonstrably, yet quietly in that village painting. The brown sign, just discernible at the angle, but definitely there. He had long cherished the painting, obtained a copy, the original outside his antique price range. It sat squarely over his fireplace, such that he could glance, with ruffled smile as time passed. Outside the snow fluffed the window, shifting and sliding in the downy rifting wind. He saw in the painting his own village, solitary in its pristine aspect, not small, not large but history cherished the
buildings, the cobbled side streets that meandered into the folded hills.
He wanted the Christmas card tradition displaying carriages, yule time actions, neighbours, friends in olden dress style, so he cast his eye to the far street slope and imagined the dancing snowdrops, the women in long dresses with hat pins gliding carefully, bypassing the drifts, a man with long coat and gaiters pulling a child on a sledge, and a carriage with two horses halted, the exaltation of breath fogging the air. And to his view came the choristers in long coats, high hats, lanterns held with yellow cast beams, small children kicking snow, young women with opera pitch smiling the notes through the hoar mist.
This was the simplicity sought with his antique shop. He was wealthy from the cauldron of city finance, took no solace from this for he had at last found contemplative peace far away from commerce’s demands, and the internecine warfare commensurate with success. He looked above the fireplace and saw the bevelled tree, knotted and bare, the winding road and the chilled lamppost as a silent guardian. He smiled, and thus he stood, head high as he sipped his cherry brandy.
The Big Freeze
The numbing bitter cold has expunged all life from the street.
Frozen out, the vibrant interaction that once graced this village is now in deep freeze,
in wintry exile.
The shuttered houses, the abandoned toboggan suggest surrender to the conquering
force of nature.
Where lurks now the once beating heart of this seemingly absent community?
Dispersed afar, or confined to some enforced hibernation, as though its residents
are sitting out a wintry siege?
Roger Knight
Cold Christmas
The windscreen is covered in ice I must clear
and driving down the road
I must be careful to steer
...oh, it's bitterly cold, can't feel my fingers.
Somehow, it seems different this year
memories of loved ones not present
circulate round here
of John and us down the pub drinking beer
enjoying each other's company
and feeling good cheer
got to enjoy it no matter what
dig deep for the good times to reappear
family times to be cherished
for you and me, my dear
but we live in challenging times
war, famine and illness are rife, such fear
death is all around us
it always feels so near
then there are the depressing tragedies
occurring around Christmas causing many a tear
but we owe it to each other to relax
and pray for a better year.
TA Saunders
Comfort and joy
By Dan Boylan
The log fire gave off a warm glow as the biting wind swirled and howled outside. The three young sisters stood by the door, swathed in woollen hats and scarves; their faces wreathed in scowls at the prospect of venturing out on such an evening.
“We don’t want to go,” announced the youngest.
“I know,” said Mrs Rogers, fastening her coat.
“It’s cold, it’ll be cold in church.”
“I know. It’s a village tradition and everyone goes to the carol service on Christmas Eve. Blow the lamp out, it’s time to go.”
They stepped outside, into the cold blackout, snow flurries curling around their bare knees and ears. The girls stepped out in front, heads bowed, the old lady trying to keep up. She caught snippets of conversation before it was whipped away on the wind...
"I want Mummy, where is she...?"
"....she’s gone to Jesus..."
"...when are we going home...?"
"...we have no home, it’s been blown to bits..."
"...I don’t like living at the old widow woman’s house..."
"...we have to stay with her, or they’ll split us up, then we might not see each other again... Daddy will come for us one day... so stop moaning..."
They scurried around dark street corners, up side-alleys and across the cobbled square towards the old church. A sidesman directed the sisters to the children’s bench and the old lady to an already crowded adult pew. Candles flickered every time the great door opened, someone coughed and across the aisle a middle aged woman softly wept. The old woman shuffled along the pew and nodded to a faintly familiar face; the woman pointed to the girls and asked, "Are they your granddaughters?"
"Evacuees, from London, mother was killed by a flying bomb a couple of weeks ago, their father is serving with the Army in Africa. Youngest is six, oldest nine. I was asked to take ’em in for a few days... last month... dunno what I’m to do with 'em.”
"Tsk. I ask you!"
The old organ groaned into life, the choir stood, and the congregation joined in the singing of O little town of Bethlehem. The old woman looked to the girls and saw them silent, heads bowed and holding hands. She could only feel an immense sadness for them. She might have told them of her husband, recently departed, or of her own son, serving on Atlantic convoys but they would be too young to understand her grief and apprehension. She would do as she had always done, keep her sorrow and her fears for the boy to herself; she would save her tears for the privacy of her bedroom. The unexpected arrival of the sisters had shaken her
from her grieving and filled her days with their weeping and heartache. She pulled out her hanky and dabbed her eyes.
They sang Away in a manger and a sidesman read the first lesson; then Hark the herald angels sing but she watched the girls thinking of their downward stares and silence. The ancient priest climbed the pulpit and delivered the Nativity story and the birth of the Saviour. He spoke of hope for the future when the fighting had finished. Still their heads hung low, their childish voices emitting the occasional sob. Eventually, the service came to an end and the priest wished everyone a joyous Christmas and prosperous New Year; the congregation stood and shuffled towards the door and the old woman fell in behind the three girls. Snow now gently falling, the sisters held hands as they walked back to the house in silence, deep in thought and saddened perhaps by the unlikely prospect of a joyous Christmas. They waited as the old woman recovered the key, unlocked the door and bid them enter. In the darkness, she had them stand on the door mat as she removed the globe of the oil lamp, struck a match and touched the wick. As she replaced the globe, a golden light spilled across the room as the oldest girl let out a shriek, "Daddy!" and flew across to the corner where the
soldier sat in the rocking chair, nursing a heavily bandaged wrist. He held his three daughters in a painful embrace, the old woman filled the kettle and stood it in the fireplace and busied herself with the tea caddy. At length, the soldier spoke, "Sorry for all the fuss Missus, your neighbour let me in, hope you don’t mind. I hope the girls haven’t caused you any problems. I’m on sick leave but I
doubt they’ll take me back with this," and he held up his hand. "I’ve brought some Army rations and some fresh fruit, enough to make us a nice Christmas dinner... and we’ll all be staying here, for as long as you will have us Mrs Rogers."
Sledge ride
Come scramble onto my sledge and we'll slide,
it's the most exhilarating fun way, to ride!
Gliding on snow and ice, holding on tight,
position yourself carefully, balance your body, just right!
We'll speed past others, in this fast toboggan race,
feel the crisp, fresh air tingle, on your rosy, red face!
Past houses and homes, with cheery lights in windows,
past trees and walls, covered in soft velvet snow.
Past street lamps, porches and Harry the postman,
past a garden, containing a smiling , winter snowman.
Faster and faster, we travel, as snow melts to ice,
we wish it would snow every day - wouldn't that be nice!
For soon the sun rays, melt our toboggan slipway,
and the snow soon fades and it's just another ordinary day!
Laura Sanders
The fall
by Laura Sanders
The blue lights flashed intermittently, on the frosted window panes, of my humble red-bricked abode. I drew the curtains and sighed... what a day! At first, when I had looked out, the village scene looked beautiful - like a wintry Christmas card, rows of sleepy cottages lay blanketed in soft snow. Bright, cheery lights twinkled out of windows, trees sparkled, doused in a fur of white. Everything appeared to look clean, fresh, bright. Soon kids emerged, pulling sledges and toboggans, or plastic bags, anything they could sit on and slide down the hill of the main village street. Many folk came outside, to have snowball fights, or build jolly-faced snowmen, it was such fun! The usually quiet village, came alive, as people greeted one another, saying "Hi, it's snowed!"
However, that same night, the temperatures plummeted to -6 and the village street became an ice rink overnight - slippery and icy.
Anyone foolhardy enough to step onto the road, could risk a tumble or fall. It soon looked eerie and sinister, a few children were out on sledges, but mainly it looked deserted, as the ice began to look like clear glass at the sides of the street. The main street had been
made skiddy and slippery from the constant toboggan racing. Then, I spotted her, old Mrs Groasby from a few doors away. She was in her mid seventies and had always been sprightly and active, for her age. She emerged holding a cheery, flowery shopping bag, the General stores were not far, just a few doors away. I guessed, she must have run out of provisions - milk or bread. She proceeded
to walk tiny steps, like a child taking its first steps, her daughter holding her arm. They both looked a bit worried and had anxious smiles on their faces. They tried to stick to the snowy areas but ice had collected at the sides where snow had thawed and so
it happened. She collapsed. Down she went, shrieking at the same time. Her daughter screamed, "Mum!" The kid on his sledge, got off and ran towards them, then ran to fetch his parents. I saw her, Mrs Groasby, wince, as her daughter snatched at her mobile phone, to ring 999. I shoved my feet into snow boots, grabbed a blanket and headed towards the door. Other folk were now
coming outside and a small crowd gathered around the unfortunate pair. Mrs Groasby said she thought she had broken her wrist.
Mr Lampard , one of the crowd, said, the nurses were on strike and it could affect the ambulance services... I covered Mrs Groasby with a pink blanket. Suddenly an ambulance crept around a corner cautiously, blue light flashing. How grateful we all felt, and relieved when two paramedics got out. It had all happened so quickly... a stretcher on which Mrs Groasby lay was carried into the back. I thought of the winter scene that looked so lovely one minute, could turn to something sinister and treacherous, the next. A ghastly iced up village , ambulance light flashing, an abandoned sledge, people gossiping about the accident, how different it all seemed now.
I picked up the pink blanket from the icy snow. Mrs Groasby was taken to hospital with her daughter in the back, with her. So much for the winter Christmas card scene, of a sleepy village in the snow.
Frosty Street
Winter... The whole street is covered in snow
fluffy, light, soft.
I can't look away
the frosty street
from this snowy fairy tale...
Snowdrifts, heaps of snow
suddenly appear everywhere...
icicles and snowflakes.
It's like a fairy tale miracle!
I'll walk down the frosty street
in the corner, beloved asleep,
I succumb to winter
inspired with miracles...
Time is no longer in a hurry,
only snow circles around me,
granting God's Grace...
I'll walk down the frosty street.
Viktoriia Peterson
The story behind The Big Freeze
by Tom Cotcher
I wandered into an art gallery in Wimbledon Village on a sunny Sunday circa 1976 (the very very hot one) on their opening day.
Why?... they were offering free wine of course! When asked which was my favourite painting, without hesitation I pointed to one of the smallest in the exhibition. It was also the only black and white on offer : an early evening snow scene .
Back then I knew absolutely nothing about what was good art and what wasn't (I still don't).
I simply just enjoyed looking...a 'hobby' I have to this day.
But I was delighted to be told that I had picked their only Lowry!!!
Since that moment snow scenes have always fascinated me...they create a deep and silent atmosphere that is seldom seen or felt in any other paintings of a seasonal nature..
And so it came to pass that as an artist many many moons later, that whenever I look at a blank canvas wondering what it will eventually produce, I often wander down the snowy village roads of my imagination. Thus THE BIG FREEZE.
November 14, 2022
J Anderson
www.creativecoverage.co.uk Stria
The sun at five o’clock high. One of the last sunsets of British summer time as October comes to an end. The sun putting on a glorious show while on its anti-clockwise journey west taking sunlight to another country’s new day. Counter to the earth on its clockwise journey east as it turns the remnants of our day into night. Stria is my companion on my northerly journey from tea with a friend to my own home. Stria teases and taunts, her bright rays radiating from the golden pupil of her eye beg me to stop and stare. While driving, all I manage to see are tantalising glimpses between houses, peeping over hedges or hidden behind trees. The views of fields between and the low slung clouds on the horizon highlighted by the probe of her fingers. Eventually my road turns to the west, at last a chance to fully admire but no my village perched on a slight rise hides all, except her last few Stria pointing skywards. The clouds of evening take on her mantle, their dark mass edged with silver and gold. The promise of another day to come. Stria has yet to reach an ocean; when she does her rays will float in time to the swell on the ever moving sea, as she slowly sinks from sight. Mary Buchan Another Day What expectations flutter fresh come aspect orb in golden hue conspiritorial the soft drip down night before horizon blooms now softened by the silent sky. And comes the day, another day with yellowed glow, more glitter sight, full ripeness in those sun kissed fields from shadow dark to daylight sight. And to the beckoning comes once more another thought, but silent times enters the supine beckoning chain as flaccid thoughts dance their song the pilgrim passage of the passing day shimmering air, soft wind-blown soft. And what do we see? A haze-like mist the memory of another day. For I have held the twilight bands fashioned as what, and can I know what sunset is or sunrise means in the glimmer of reality come the passage of time. Don Magee In memory's field by Don Magee There is a place, at first it came as a dream, wind blown with haze, but then reality poured into my conscious, and that dream was a memory long stored but now released. That day opened to a nectarine sky, flamed yet subdued. I saw the green fields, coasted by the sea to the distance, voices rippling the air in cacophonous laughter and the urgent motions of pleasure- seeking families. And how I wished to share that joy. An elderly man, or so I thought, sat astride the near field, perched on a stool with the easel tilted forward. He moved little, his head held askew to the left, his gaze, a focused intensity, sought the sky’s horizon. He had a sentient quality but seemed to have the rhythm of the dancing vistas. And thus he stared, seeking an answer in the changing sky. I sat nearby intrigued, pondering with him the expectations that I summised he sought. He brushed the canvas at last, slow, careful, seasoned strokes, following a rhythm I knew not, but he had calculated the mood swing, or so it seemed. And thus he stared until the nectarine colour changed to full gold crowding the complete sky as a fire suspended across those fields. He stood slowly, a still smile sheltered on his mouth, and I saw no age but young maturity in that frame. He worked now with confident deliberation, and I saw the sky captured as never before. Imagination sat on that canvas. Now in my own maturity, when time's angst steal the moment, I pitch my thoughts in those long past fields, and gather in the peace perfection brings. I am now at rest from turmoil, and my own worries. And to the question that life’s crises throw, I sit silent and bring the image refuge of memories' fields. The promise In the culture Leela comes from the sun stands for renewal. Leela thinks the picture resembles the wheel of a chariot. A chariot of fire bursts through the night, slashing the darkness with weapons of light. Into murky-still waters, a glittering rope - for life to grasp, and ascend with hope. The chariot drives forward, then disappears, with the promise of renewal as dawn reappears. Leela Gautam Sunlight, Surya’s (Sun God) Brilliance Strolling in the isolated beach a warm unexplainable smile breaks through the presence, the light penetrating through clouds from a distant horizon shades of yellows, oranges, blues, pinks purples and more hang like a tapestry, nature's work of art only on display for just few seconds, just a blinking of the eye the artist very quickly captures the sunlight I close my eyes for a few minutes to absorb the magic of the moment silent prayer of appreciation to Surya (Sun God) the primordial energy brightening and energising each other’s moods with a smile on reflection when Surya’s companions rain, fog wind and chilliness is felt, I curl up, loss of energy, feeling a sense of heaviness within me I shrink, become less mobile, darkness surrounds my aura I lament, oh Surya, I feel miserable, energy less on days when the thick blanket of cloud blocks your glow, silent whispers of sound permeate my consciousness Surya’s soft whispers resonate, "I am here within you, seek me within energising your aura, and throwing light to all the negativity and filling you with light of knowledge." I awaken from the momentary slumber, energised and flying with excitement to embrace the visible light the sunlight absorbs me as I merge into the distant horizon the shades of yellows, oranges, blues, purple have cleared, leaving only the pure white light losing myself in this warm loving presence of Surya I awaken to the knowing that the primordial energy, warmth and beauty surrounds me I feel joyful at Surya’s omnipresence day and night, through storms and blizzards Surya’s whispers are imprinted within my consciousness awareness cloaked in the pure white sunlight, Surya the Sun God the primordial energy ever present in the moment. Puvaneswary Ayam Pillai A restless sunset What story does this picture tell? A ball of light within an angry, sun set scene, backed by a sullen sky as earth moves round, will rise, a silver glow over the crest of a horizon far away. Thrown from within its rays, boxes in a restless mind confused, and troubled, no peace to find in sleep, that night should bring. Margaret Hughes Probation I cannot still the sea or cease the wind to blow upon this woebegotten heaven. Is it for the company of birds and setting sun? That I do linger here for leaven, or is it to tussle with the monsters of the deep and tourney with the dragons of the air. Raymond Anderson The Hireling Not a fold in the sky, not a stitch in the light blue velvet. Orchards shimmered in the heat, sparrows bickered in the dust. A breeze that barely brushed a field of oats waited in the wings, hot and still. The day increased to the sound of skylarks repeating their ascending descant. Like plumed luggage on a carousel ducks paddled around the edge of a pond as dragonflies hovered above the reeds. He thought he discerned a presence nearby, but it was only the sun flicking fingers through the trees. A blackbird sang at its lectern of laurel while woodpigeons clattered out of the canopy and branches breathed in the draught of air. Ivy stifled the pollard oak, a bumblebee growled in a funnel of ferns, the hollyhocks laughed! A skeleton of roots crawled through the grass, a cat went prowling through the wood, the sky froze, not a bird stirred. Those that scurried through leaf-mould on the track of a grub had lifted to their place. Astray in a cornfield, suffused in sunlight, his sheep stood like maggots in amber. While golden stalks lay broken and crushed, he frolicked with his maid in a meadow close by. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the harvest vista, a magpie cackled in a sapling broom of years. Raymond Anderson Allotted Hour At the allotted hour the sun rises, culminates and sets. With inexorable tread onward comes the tortoise uniting with all the fauna of day and night that obey the laws of life and of its setting. The jackdaw and squirrel eager for the garden spoils, the top branch blackbird singing his hymn with no irksome ditties to offend the ear. The late breeze brushing through tomb and tower while crows fly home, patches in a darkling sky. The vesper bells sporting with the chattering throng that shall conclude the day, to uphold the rite. At their allotted hour — they too will set. Raymond Anderson An artist's delight The golden eye of a summer's sun, quelled - it's egg yolk core melting glorious rays, into the sea's currents and flows. A fusion of yellow and misted violet blue striata appeared, as the sun sunk, into a horizon , slowly-slow... A painter's paradise image, had emerged in his window view. He had reached for his camera and palette of paints. Enthralled by such beauty, it would be fleeting, to his eye. He began eagerly, to dab the fine colours, feeling no restraint. A shimmery sea, heady and alive, on a hot July day, the ripples glinted, mirroring the glory, of his special art. He ignored thoughts of climatic change, worry and strife, so absorbed was he, right from the very start. He desired to capture the beauty of this earth, the vast sky, the sheen of the sea, the hot blaze of sun. An image perfect, freely given, a treasure of a sight, for there is no planet ever as beautiful, as this one! But would he capture the intensity of sun, water and sky? Days later, he looked again, assured, he began to smile... Laura Sanders Sunset Sunset comes at the end of the day funny or not so funny that I am writing this so early in the day not so funny when you consider that this may be an allegory of my life and I am near the end it’s enough to send you round the bend if you are not already there. But here I am still mentally sound or am I fooling myself as others around me are losing the plot like not remembering the names of friends they’ve known from times immemorial or gone to rooms to fetch they know not what and returned and remembered then what it was that they forgot. I remember so well that song from the fifties recorded by Nat King Cole of Red Sails in the Sunset way out on the sea that carried his loved one home closer to him or was it to me and yet when was it last week that I went to see my friend whose name I have forgotten, how rotten. It is that I have got to this state of mind and yet I’m fit to go to town if only I knew what it was that I needed or wanted. Benny Cardwell October 14, 2022
Grey Day, Late Autumn, pastel, A1 by David Brammeld RBA
www.creativecoverage.co.uk Seasons Destroyed
It's actually summer, late July you cannot see the sun the smoke from the bombs painted the sky grey an oily smell packs your nostrils it's acrid, stink. Stays on your clothes but you have nothing to change into so you live with this. The trees, their wilderness, the poor birds all dead from previous attacks there's a deafening silence nature is no longer heard I huddle here with my twin sons waiting for my husband's uncle he has a boat. We stare up river our only hope of escape we have to survive these boys need to see their father again. Maurice Sherlock Grey Day… Late Autumn Beautiful autumn colours slowly being blown away care free. Children playing among the colourful fallen leaves but for me, my siblings, my mother, it’s a grey dark day world shatters, smiles ripped away tears blocking the light, shivering on once safe ground feeling choked by the grey, foggy sensation around me frightened, fear closes in like thick fog scary, penetrating screams, loud woeful screams Amma* beating her head, again and again Why… what is happening? My six-year-old self stares, motionless unable to fully comprehend the moment I am witnessing a lifeless body carried in it’s my father! Motionless. It’s my papa, Why my father? Why, what’s the matter? Neighbours crowding, consoling, hugging my Amma feeling aloneness, walking alone walking through wet, dark, windless woodland, nowhere to go, no papa to run to my world of dreams shattering, feeling of hopelessness saddest moment in my life seeing my mother break down sense of loss, helplessness shrouds me foggy damp blanket soaked in tears wraps me life stands still… lost in foggy woodland. Time passes by as sunlight penetrates through the grey fog Amma's overpowering love for her children's well being gives hope, willpower, desire to live my life restored confidence, reappears as light breaks through the fog. Puvaneswary Ayam Pillai *Mātā Amritānandamayī Devī, often known as Amma, is an Indian Hindu spiritual leader, guru and humanitarian, who is revered as 'the hugging saint' by her followers. Spring will return This is where we sprinkled the remnants of your precious self, where we planted saplings in your memory, where we watched them grow. Nurtured by spring, adorned by summer, they stand bare, arms linked in friendship, tracing a message of hope against the dull autumn sky. Winter will come and go, as it must. Spring will soon return to dress these in glory, a living memorial of our love for you. Leela Gautam Remembering the ashes of our dog buried beneath trees. Trees Slender trees sway to a frost cold breeze as their twig tips reach for the sky. The last of their leaves lose their grip to lie layered, in an array of bright colours on the ground. As a mist rises in the darkening dusk an owl hoots. Hoots to his mate, swerves wide winged, pale, in out and around, eyes to the ground. His mate’s answer echoes his call. The moon in her own time, passes the silhouetted trees. Their restless twigs tangle in her hair. Moonless the twisting twigs reach out to greedily grab at handfuls of stars. Unexpected, a flurry of snow whitens the slender boles to their windward. Ivy unaware clings, climbs on their lee. A chill dawn, the sun reluctant to rise; only the owls know, there has been snow. Mary Buchan A Moment in Time by Donna Turner The woman stands by the naked trees, stripped of their leaves by winter's touch. Morning has arrived and fog is rolling in, disguising the surroundings with a veil of white. She is certain she has the right place but it has been a while since she was last here with her friends. Three teenagers naive to the reality of adulthood, excitement and eagerness filling their days. She shakes her head trying desperately to dislodge the memories from her mind. She wishes she could go back to that night, before their friendship was stained with arguments and bad decisions. Words spoken that couldn’t be unsaid, feelings hurt, forgiveness unthinkable. She checks her watch, 7:28 am, they should be here soon. A branch snaps underfoot. Is that them? Had they come? A deer emerges from the mist, frozen when he sees her. "Like a deer in headlights," she snorts to herself. If ever a phrase summed up her life, she thinks. The deer turns and disappears back into the white. Then she hears them, voices in the distance telling her they are on their way. She wonders if they expect her to be there, will they be happy to see her? Doubt fills her thoughts. She wants to run but her feet are rooted to the spot like the towering trees around her. This is a mistake, she shouldn’t have come back. The voices got louder, her heart is beating faster, her stomach twisted. Then she sees them. It has been 10 years but she instantly recognises them as the 17 year olds they were back then. Her friends speak first. “We didn’t know if you would come.” Their voices steady and emotionless. “I didn’t either,” comes her shakey reply. Then the barrier keeping them apart for the last 10 years shatters, and they embrace. Three women instantly transported back in time. Words tumbling out of them, falling over each other in an emotional back and forth between them. As the old friends settle into a more familiar routine of conversation, the woman reaches for the spade she had propped up against a tree. “Shall we?” she says before plunging the spade deep into the damp earth. Each scoop of dirt removing another layer of unease between them until they reach the tin. The woman retrieves the tin from the hole, brushes the dirt from the top and looks at her friends. In silent acknowledgment they prepare to open the lid to the memories of their childhood. The Waking Copse What life is there in this ethereal space as a misty late autumn day begins to dawn? Sleepy creatures wake to the soft, melancholy song of a robin, trickling through. this stark, hollow copse. A lovelorn fox running by, disturbs the peace, with an anguished cry, his hope - a vixen will reply. Roosting birds, soon on the wing, away to field and moor to hunt and feed. In soft moist paths, slots show that bounding deer passed this way. An elusive wood mouse scuttling through the lush green understore finds insects and seeds, favourite food for this tiny omnivore hiding from beady eyes of fox and badger and any feathered predator. The woodland floor provides a place for Jays to build a winter’s store of acorns, often in a row, those missed, in spring, free to grow. Though trees look barren, weak and bent, it’s nature’s way, giving time to restore energies spent. Margaret Hughes Forever Grey? No lingering leaves now left to fall just branches reaching for the sky a haze of chilling mist o’er all the sun, it seems, has passed us by. But on the forest floor I’ve seen crushed and damp, the autumn fall sepia, greige, and olive green, leaves umber burnt, no life at all. As fingertips of light pierce through the warmth now lifts the misty air draws back the colour with the dew changing the cast-offs lying there. Patterns swirl and blend upon the ground a carpet glorious of ochre, brown and red and then I faintly hear the rustling sound as creatures wake to raise a curious head. Dull grey as life may sometimes be bright moments lift the spirit too new growth will clothe the barren tree and Spring will finally push on through. Sue Farmer Brummitt Grey Day Sunrise in the Black Hills ruddy dawn the east is covered far beyond the mountain the flame is out. Sprinkled with dew flowers in the fields the cow herds have awakened in soft meadows. the mists are grey. Viktoriia Peterson Renewing Drums Beautiful moon and I, serene washed in the tide of the night awaken to news I do not seek. I walk barefoot on a forest floor root connect to mother earth avoid broken pinecones. Watch green fern and ivy jostle yellowed leaves crushed rotten tree trunks sprout. Touch lichen covered fallen boughs listen for the cosmos drumbeat to meet my own heart. Quiet me, as in a mother’s womb I’m listening to the wind, soft spoken whispering grasses weave a dance. To meet me here. Sit and stay a while the birds are still. Margaret Kiernan Grey Day It was a grey day when you left me and the world was hidden from my view. I could not hear a single sound, so lost was I in thoughts of you. I could not feel the drops of rain or see the flowers gently bloom. I only knew the ache of loneliness that came to haunt my empty room. And how I wished for just a moment, another second of your company, but you were gone unto a place that was a million miles from me. I thought that I could not exist for one more day in time or space, but I was saved by special dreams in which I saw your lovely face. Mary Cochrane Grey Day Tall and leafless finds the tree, this fall, like many, hibernate 'til spring staying still, aloof, for now, until birds arrive, again to sing, Stay tall and proud, until the time, come alive, with leaf, and sign, of new awakening, all around rejoice once more, such joy to view, change once more, to hear new sound tall tree will leaf once more. Pamela King Weathering Chaos by Lee Montgomery-Hughes The trees waited eerily still and silent. The day had been unusually composed, no wind rifled through any blades of grass, or flustered the autumn foliage. All had remained unruffled, too settled in a haze of tranquillity but as night-time drew-in that was to change. In the early hours of the morning a violent atmospheric disturbance, elicited by the help of strong winds and thunder struck its terror. As lightning split the night, allowing brief glimpses beyond the heavens, black shadows danced to the beat of heavy drums. Pelting rain with ice-cold points as sharp as needles cascaded onto the unsuspecting woods, bleeding into sleepy streams raising them precariously towards the tops of banks and then above well-trodden now watery paths to surge across the unprotected lands. Gale force winds howled and whipped at branches, uprooting trees from their slumber and expertly relocating anything that wasn’t secure. By daybreak the acrid smell of the evaporating downpour filled the relentless stillness. Birds warily took flight, not quite trusting the sudden serenity in the land now filled with total destruction. Insipid rays of sunshine valiantly sought to bathe the damage in rose-coloured hues but failed dismally. A dank mist clung to the edge of the forest shrouding the worst of the carnage where so many trees littered the ground, only those strong enough to cling to life still stood, albeit battered and bare. The double rainbow arching across the grey skies between the branches could have been taken as a welcome sign that the worst was over but that was mere folly. With the ever-present threat posed by mankind to the earth’s climate, it is evident that unless there are real changes there will be so much more untold devastation still to come. The woods in late autumn The trees stand unclothed, at the start of a November day and leaves drift from branches, they float far away. Slowly the grey haze clears and the murk and mist rolls, to reveal bare, dark trunks, like men without souls. Stark, they appear, with bent, withered, spindly arms. Twisted, like they are grabbing, they seem to lack charm. I duck, stoop and bend, as I walk the foliage green. The vines are fading, where once, summer's coat had been. Mother Nature has left her mark, on a carpet of bramble, where a damp mossy aroma pervades, in the air, as I ramble. Soon, I reach a clearing, where the tall trees, thin out. All is silent, no soft stepping deer, or birds fly about. The trees are so still, tangled, figures, against a greying sky. Relieved to reach the periphery, I leave fauna behind, to die. Laura Sanders Winter tree scape Like solemn tendrils, stripped of their summer vegetation, they arc towards a wintry grey sky. They represent to me an array of perfect, almost exact diagrams of all my dead yearnings. Roger Knight The Copse I have been here forever. Birthed in green light, bathed in dimpled dappled forest water, I am the daughter of the stalwart oaks and lonely paths down which my old, old feet now stall and trip. By night I hear the rain plink fizzing on the flames – see golden forms take shape against the dark silk of the sky. And now this thing – this monstrous thing – has spoiled the gift that is my copse, my wood, my aromatic paradise. A bitter taste that no rough herb or wayside grass can lift. Yet still. I know the language of the crows; our laws are not far from their own, they say, and justice can be slow, but in the end it will be done. I will wait here forever. Rose Egan Fe Fi Fo Fae The Faeries gathered in the dark in Andover, at Beech Hurst Park the humans slept - deeply - as they often do, the product of faerie dust, ‘tween me and you. What folk don’t know, it will happen soon will-o’-the-wisps flicker by the light of the moon, faeries travel hundreds of miles to stay, to celebrate the 21st of June, the longest day. They arrive by pony, horse and cart clothes turned inside out, but looking smart carrying charms, shaped like church bells four-leaf-clovers and food with wonderful smells. The Celtic Faeries, wear kilts, of course which is quite difficult, when riding a horse their pet Haggis run wild, scaring the children but to this day, not one has been bitten. A carnival is set up and a circus too this year, they even have a petting zoo they’ve got a Big Foot and a smelly Yeti it’s down by the lake, near the jetty. The elders, of the faeries world, are few this year the total, is only 22 some are in Portugal, France and Spain they go for the sun and don’t come back again. In old French romance, faeries are magic, some relationships succeed, some are tragic words, herbs and stones are often used but sometimes - sadly - the power’s abused. This year the German Fey are here eating bratwurst and drinking beer they yodel and wear their lederhosen it’s not the sort of clothing, I’d have chosen. They dance and prance, they love to sing church bells, will often ting-a-ling they rarely argue and never fight choosing to enjoy, a joyous night. Often humans, heading home to bed, think they’ve gone and bumped their head when seeing twinkling magic lights and tiny creatures, in bright green tights. But, they live amongst us, providing love occasionally, bringing messages from above, it’s OK to be sceptical, to poo-poo and doubt but some of us know, when there's faeries about. So if you hear “Fe Fi Fo Fae” today, it could be lucky, that’s all I’ll say or find a four-leaf-clover on the ground well, possibly, there’s been faeries around. John FR Munro 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
The bangle lay upon the floor, no one used it anymore children grown off to Uni they have flown. In the family, for many a year no one knew that it was dear if it was mine, off I’d go and visit the Antiques Roadshow! John FR Munro The Bangle I mean it's a prompt it's a challenge but it's just a bangle ok, they say it's Indian etc severe historical accolades ...but is it? Where did you get it? Pawn shop, that figures I think it's me Ma's going through her late Ma's stuff got it down the market they reckon for little or nothing! Maurice Sherlock The Bangle a tangle With summer now come to an end. Jo the gardener moves amongst his patio pots. Centipedes and millipedes scurry as fast as their multiple tiny legs can carry them. Woodlice startled. Sudden brightness an omen of trouble. Flurry, hurry, roll into little grey balls. Earthworms, fat or thin double-ended; taken aback, writhe undecided about in which direction to squirm. Slugs fat, large, lugubrious make no move just pray it will soon be very dark again. Snails huddle firmly anchored, realise their mistake. They have chosen the gardener’s favourite, his Hosta pot. Experience tells them they will be unstuck, crudely tossed into the nearest most unpleasant place. Painfully, through dry crunchy leaves, have to start all over again. Jo a kind forgiving soul, smiles to himself sweeps up the summer’s debris, each pot lovingly, carefully replaced. Mary Buchan 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.”
