Sunday, October 22, 2006

FOR MITROFAN

After reading about this tragic bear I felt I had to write something!!


FOR MITROFAN

My morning started much like any other, except this morning I put a coat on and pulled up the hood to shelter my newly washed locks from the pouring rain.

The beautiful Koi carp didn’t seem to mind. They just tootled round the pond waiting for breakfast.

As usual I was a day behind with my newspaper reading, but what I read on page 21 of the Telegraph had me nearly reduced to tears of despair. I wanted to climb a mountain and scream to the world, what the hell is going on?

I have much to do today, but cannot focus on anything until I get this little baby off my chest. And someone owes it to MITROFAN to let him know that some of us do care.

Who is Mitrofan? He’s the unsuspecting, trusting bear, shot by King Juan Carlos of Spain. So what? I hear the hunters say.

Mitrofan is described as a “good humoured and jolly bear” who was kept at a farm in the village of Novlenskoye, in Russia. This good humoured and jolly domestic bear was put in a cage where the party fed him on honey laced with Vodka. Thus the big, lumbering creature became an inebriated, “easy” target for their visiting dignitary.

The report from Sergey Starostin has caused some embarrassment to the Governor of Vologda, a region in northern Russia. Mr. Starostin, deputy head of the region’s hunting grounds conservation department, has loudly condemned the shooting of Mitrofan, which happened in late August. The word he uses is “abominable.”

There is no evidence to prove that King Juan knew the tragic animal was drunk, but one would wonder if it would be possible for an experienced hunter not to realise that something was amiss.

Governor Pozgalev was forced to order an investigation after failing to gag the feisty Sergey Starostin, who claims there have been similar incidents in the region. His words will ring in many ears. “I’ve been hunting for many years and I think that a situation when an animal is given no chance is immoral.”

I second that Mr. Starostin, and salute you for your courage at speaking out against this despicable act of total cruelty and indulgence. “Hey, I shot a bear today!”

Fears are now running high for Maya a female bear who shared a cage with Mitrofan at the Woodgrouse hunting estate. It is feared she is being prepared for the next “big wig” who visits the region “for a bit of sport?”

And what of the law? Shooting a wild bear with a licence is permitted; killing a tame bear might contravene a law. Oh, just in case you didn’t know, giving a bear in Russia vodka, is not illegal.

That makes me feel a whole lot better!!!

If only the tables could be turned and big, unsuspecting Mitrofan, who put his faith in the human race, was able to return and fill some of the hunting party with lashings of Vodka before giving chase.

Perhaps I’ll have a word with Stephen King!!

Rest in peace Mitrofan, hopefully you are in a better place. And to the members of that misguided hunting party, I wish you many sleepless nights!!

THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright on your own Mum?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll be fine, don’t you remember where you grew up, that little house in the middle of nowhere; why shouldn’t I be alright?”

Jess nods her head.

“Okay, then we’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I stand on the veranda, with Penny the Labrador at my ankles, and Friday the cat purring furiously on the padded sun-lounger. I turn and smile, listening to the roar of the waterfall, the sound of the birds singing, and realise just how beautiful nature is. She waves her finery in my face, the blue sky, the fluffy clouds, fir trees drooping with branches overloaded with every shade of green, while a tiny breeze, rustles the leaves on the silver birch that act as a slight buffer against traffic noise from the road below.

“Right Penny, there’s just about time for a swim.”

“We’ll see you when we get back” I say to Friday as I give her tiny head a friendly scratch.

Everyone else is leaving the pool as we pull up, and walk through the field to enjoy the delights that form beneath this mammoth cascade of clear, pure water. Penny races on and is already paddling across the water, before I dip my toe in to touch the rocky surface. Best keep the sandshoes on until I am far enough in to swim, then it’s simply a matter of swimming to the ledge at the far side and slinging them up there until it is time to go home. Penny splashes back to join me and together we strike out across the crystal clear water. The evening sunlight dances on the spray from the waterfall creating a magical rainbow. I thank God I am alive, and free to enjoy such wondrous moments. I think of him for just a second, before giving my latest efforts at the crawl my best shot. Why can’t I do this stroke, when everyone else seems to do it so easily?

“Thank goodness no one’s around to see this,” I mutter as I revert to a respectable breaststroke. Penny is every bit as stylish in her doggy paddle as I am in my effort to master the crawl.

We share this idyllic moment, splashing and stretching our limbs. Life is good, being on my own isn’t so bad. But I suppose I am not on my own, I am out here, in an alien land living with the daughter who took not a second’s hesitation to offer me solace, when I needed it most. I wonder if I will ever be able to repay her.

She says I have already repaid her, by being there, being brave enough to make the decision to leave, and being happy.

“Come on then, Penny, time for home.” I call her and she swims towards me as I grab the sandshoes from the puddle-filled ledge. This is where it gets tricky as I head for the shallow water and stumble around trying to put the shoes on my feet.

“Ouch, that hurt,” I land on my backside, against a protruding rock, spluttering and choking as my mouth fills with water. Penny starts to bark furiously but there is no one there.

“Be quiet Penny, what the heck is the matter with you?” She ignores me and keeps on barking. That’s when I see him, standing there, my heart skips a beat, fear grips me, it’s not possible, he couldn’t know where I am, especially not down at this waterfall. My limbs tighten into a spasm of panic, I start to flounder, I lose my footing and my head crashes against another rock. Blackness overcomes me, I am safe in a world where no one can touch, bully or frighten me. Peace devours me, relaxes my mind. I drift in a world full of love, birdsong, children laughing, flowers with intoxicating perfume and candles, candles lit in darkness, offering serenity, peace and calm. A firm hand touches my arm; the barking has stopped. I struggle to open my eyes, the evening sunlight blinds me as my eyelashes flicker and I see him standing over me. I quickly pull an arm over my face, ready to protect myself.

“Sssh, baby, it’s okay. I’m here. I love you.”

Love? What does he know about love? His kind of love is what drove me to run, to grab a jet plane and fly off to another world, a world that stands still in comparison to all that I have been used to. The land of the midnight sun, where it is still daylight at midnight, something that takes a lot of getting accustomed to, but which never fails to thrill me. I open my mouth to speak, but struggle to say anything, there is nothing left to say. Penny’s barking makes my head ache.

“For God’s sake Penny, will you shut up.”

I realise he must have pulled me out of the water, when I feel the huge lump on the side of my head. How could it be, that he was here, right at the moment my life was threatened? I owe him my life, but cannot bring myself to thank him.

I console myself that for years I gave him my life, forgot about everyone else, gave up on friends who tried to make me see what he was doing to me, but was too damned stubborn to see.

Jess calls it brainwashing, just like the kids that are taken in by these religious cults. But this is me, a strong, independent person, how can it be that I was brainwashed. Or is love really that blind? It doesn’t matter now anyway, because I feel nothing for him, not a thing. But he’s saved me, pulled me from this water. Now what?

I lie there, amongst the long wispy grass, Penny comes over and sniffs my face, then lies down beside me. She’s stopped barking, I suppose I should be thankful for that. My head hurts like hell. I can hardly bear the thought of getting up. I know how much it is going to hurt. I don’t want to go home, because I don’t want him to know where I live, what a predicament. I close my eyes with my arm round Penny’s neck.

I’m back amongst the flowers with their heavy scent, perhaps I’ll stay here forever, it seems a better alternative than that really facing me.

“Meg, are you okay? What did you do? I have been watching from my window, you fall, yes?” I recognise the broken English of my neighbour Knut, a nosey old devil, who sits by his window most evenings on the other side of the river. I heave a sigh of relief, I am not alone with Robert anymore. Knut knows the story, once he realises who he is, he will protect me, I know he will.

“ You get up now?” His massive hand reaches out, and pulls me to my feet.

“You come home with me, the dog can come too. Einfried will look at your head, she is good at things like that.”

“I manage to laugh, Einfried is good at everything Knut, you are a lucky man.”

I realise we are alone, and look around.

“Knut, did you see where the man went?”

“What man, there is no man.”

“The man, who was here before you arrived, you must have seen him.”

“No, no man was here, I saw you pull yourself from the water and knew you must be hurt. You move slowly, not like normal, you move fast.”

I lean on Knut, and slowly we make our way back to the car.

“You can drive Knut, I don’t think I could manage it right now.”

Einfried is standing at the door as we arrive at their house. She is typically Norwegian, gentle, quiet. She speaks no English, but speaks to me anyway. Penny laps the bowl of water that is ever present for visiting dogs.

“You stay here tonight, and go home in the morning.” Knut barks some orders and Einfried scurries off to the spare bedroom, fluffing pillows ready to receive me.

I admit defeat and sink into a warm comfortable bed.

“Penny will be okay, I go now and see the cat for you.”

I drift lightly in and out of sleep, my responsible side nagging me that sleep is not sensible after being knocked unconscious, but I prefer sleep, to the knowledge that Robert has somehow found me. I cannot face it, not now that I have found such solace.

A gentle shuffle of feet across the wooden floor wakens me as sunlight streams in the window. I smell toast and realise a tray has been placed on the bedside table.

I lie back on my pillows, nibble on the toast and sip the deliciously hot tea, as Penny watches, waiting patiently for me to make the effort to get out of bed. I hear the distant roar of the waterfall, and the phone ringing in the lounge. I decide to stay in bed and let them have the privacy of their phone call in peace.

“I am somewhat puzzled when Knut strides into my room, closely followed by Einfried. He wears a furrowed brow and I start to panic.

“What’s wrong Knut?”

Panic grips me, something is wrong, God please don’t let it be Jess.

“Jess, she phone me just now, she tried the house, you were not there. I tell her you okay. She is going to phone you at home in half an hour, I am coming with you and so is Einfried.”

The mystery deepens, I make no effort to remonstrate and arrive back at the house to be greeted warmly by a purring cat.

The phone rings. “Mum is that you, is Knut with you? I have some bad news. I got a call last night. Mum there is no easy way to tell you this, Robert is dead, he died last night. Killed in a road accident.”

I hand the phone to Knut and walk away. “How can he be dead, when he was here, last night? He must have pulled me from the water, because I hit my head, and remember swallowing loads of the stuff before blacking out.

I recall his words, “I love you.”

Did he find me in death, when he couldn’t find me in life? So many questions.

I know he was there, I saw him, the dog saw him, she was going crazy. Am I alive because of him?

I hold my head in my hands but can find no tears.

“Thank you Robert” I whisper. I know he hears me.

1707 words/6 pages

Sunday, August 06, 2006

TWO POEMS WRITTEN RECENTLY

Haven't posted anything for a while, so here goes with another couple of recent efforts.

Twin Sets and Pearl Necklaces

Respectable granny

it rings in my head,

but when I pull on my jeans

I feel naughty instead.

I don’t want to sit

by the fire every night,

or tuck myself in

lest the bedbugs should bite.

I turn up the volume

and wind down the glass

as I drop down a gear

and pull out just to pass

The sensible lady

who paddles along,

with her head fixed straight forward

and face oh so long.

I’m counting the days

till I fulfil a dream

with Sir Mick and Keith Richards

it should be a scream.

I’ve grown to enjoy

living all on my own,

where I play Primal Scream

and of course Rolling Stones.

I’ve taught all the grand bairns

the joy of the jive,

and the art of enjoying

each day we’re alive.

It doesn’t cost money,

to laugh or give cuddles,

if they take this to heart

their lives won’t be a struggle.

So I’ll try to be good

as all grannies should be,

but twin sets and pearl necklaces

are not meant for me.

I’ll just stick to the tee shirt

my favourite old friend,

maybe buy a new Stones’ one,

and set a new trend.

I’m too old to be rock chick

I’m more like a hen,

but this hen aint done clucking

there’s still much to learn.

There’s the whales in Alaska

canoes on Lake Louise,

the elephants of Africa,

the call of the seas.

It’s what makes life exciting

the draw of the unknown

once I’ve found all the answers

I will settle at home.



I dedicate this poem to a very courageous man, Philip Blenkinsop.



THE PLIGHT OF THE HMONG

He took many pictures in 2003

he took their names and heard their stories.

They in turn flung themselves at his feet,

thinking he was their saviour,

not just some man with a camera and a story to write.

What he learnt then and now is how cruel life can be,

how atrocities are still happening,

right there, right now as we pull up our chair to

enjoy poached eggs on toast and read what scandals

the red tops have found this week.

Little swollen bellies, distended with hunger

don’t understand why their parents always look so sad, so haunted,

they are too young to remember big brothers shot in the head.

The Hmong fled China to escape persecution,

many were trained by the C.I.A. to fight with the Americans

in the hell hole of Vietnam,

with the promise of freedom and a future once the war was won.

Forty thousand lost their lives

and they were left with broken promises.

In desperation many escaped to Thailand

some even managed to reach the United States,

where people turned their backs

and didn’t want to know.

And then the Lao military swept in promising to slay every last

American collaborator still trapped in the wilderness.

Blenkinsop, wanted to know their story and found them,

deep in the jungle, alone, betrayed, frightened and angry.

Hunted and shot like rats, in the year of 2006.

What price humanity?

What price conscience?

Those not shot face starvation.

Bang Yang an orphan, mother and widow

by the time she was fifteen years old

has sobbed herself dry,

no one comes for her, tomorrow will be the same as today.

Everyone must read their story,

everyone must pray that somebody, somewhere

has the power to stop this torture

and salute Blenkinsop for having the courage to

take his pictures.





Monday, April 17, 2006

JACOB

JACOB

We were well into our second week of lambing when Jacob arrived. Nearly every pen was full; mothers and offspring doing well. Jacob was one of a pair of Suffolk cross lambs from a greyfaced ewe, and it was immediately apparent that all was not well. While his sibling staggered to his feet and nuzzled into his mother’s udder, Jacob remained rather awkwardly on his bottom. On my return from checking all the other new arrivals, nothing had changed. Leaning over the gate of the pen, I tried to plonk him on his feet, only to be interrupted by our rather matter of fact ‘herd, who muttered something about “that yin looks like it needs a dunt on the heid”, which translated means, he needs a knock on the head. Grey faced (or mule as they are often called) ewes are kind and devoted mothers and usually produce at least two lambs. My husband and I never put a ewe away to the field with more than two lambs, so there was always a pen of orphans needing bottled until a substitute mum came along. After topping up all my charges I picked up Jacob and sat him on my knee, while I encouraged him to suck. The result was quite astonishing. Never before or since, have I witnessed a little lamb with such unbelievable sucking prowess. If I tried to get him to catch breath for a few seconds he would roar the lambing shed down. By day two he still could not stand, so we released his mother and healthy sibling to the field and kept Jacob back. I have worked with animals for most of my life, and have never been stupid enough to let sentimentality cloud my senses, but there was something about this little fellow that made me feel he deserved a chance, so I ignored the mumbled mutterings from our ‘herd Robbie, and secretly embarked upon an intensive course of lamb physiotherapy. I produced an old orange box and plonked my patient with his legs straddled across either side, I did this regularly for five minutes or so, while I checked all the other inside pens and gave them fresh turnips and feeding. I was eventually caught out by Robbie, who looked at me as if I was “half daft”. This performance went on for many days, accompanied by regular leg rubs and every other piece of T.L.C.

I could muster. Obviously nourishment was never an issue because this wee chap could suck for Scotland. It was a wonderful Spring that year, (roughly twenty years ago), one of the few conducted without a big waterproof coat. One sunny morning Jacob took his first faltering steps. It had taken me about two weeks, but I was elated. He toddled around in the sunlight which was streaming into the large open area of the lambing shed. His tiny feet rustled in the straw, which in the evenings housed the remaining pregnant ewes. Everyone who stuck their head into the shed that day commented on my triumph, and of course my daughters shared my delight. But life is never simple, so even after we managed to “set him on” to an adoptive ewe, Jacob still preferred to suck a bottle. The great day came when Jacob tottered out of the shed and into a small paddock. We kept him close by in case he fell over, and couldn’t get back up on his feet. Although now mobile, his steps were still stunted, and he fell over quite easily. I kept out of sight as much as possible, for fear of him following me instead of his mobile milk bar. Sadly my joy was to be short lived. We had to eventually move him and a few other slightly decrepit ewes and lambs into a much bigger field, which was a good distance from our home. From the shelter point of view it was excellent; hedges, trees and the back of the dry stone dykes, provided superb cover from icy wind and rain, should it so happen, but the ground was quite rough, and that worried me. Everything seemed okay for at least the first week, then one morning he was gone: gone without trace. I searched, and searched but all to no avail. His mother seemed neither up nor down, but then he had never been that close to her, always preferring a bottle, if the chance had been there. I enlisted the help of a good friend, who was a skilled tracker, and we both came to the conclusion that our little friend had been snatched by Mr. Fox. There were several tiny clues to his fate, like the traces of wool on the bottom of the fence, where there was evidence of a slight space, and also, and worst of all, remains of milk where Foxy had torn into his tummy. I had always accepted that his tendency to fall over might be his death warrant, but with four young girls and 650 acres I still gave him my best shot. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach, sick that I had failed him, but as my husband pointed out, at least I gave him some life, even if it was short lived.

I don’t know why I called him Jacob, other than the association with flock of sheep, but for me, few animals have made such a profound impression on my life. He represented perseverance, courage, patience and most of all love, and for that I will always be glad that I knew him.


Published in Countryside Tales.




A SPECIAL PLACE

A SPECIAL PLACE

This is her secret place,

that’s offered her solace,

where no one comes but her,

and strong emotions stir.

She hugs herself and dreams

and stifles inward screams,

wipes teardrops from her cheeks,

lets no one see her weep.

She’s cried a million tears,

surmounted all her fears,

but hides it deep within

that still she thinks of him

She misses his soft touch

and oh it hurts so much,

to think of all those years

he filled her life with fear.

A moment’s tender touch

a grasping jealous clutch,

a ranting, raving finger

if she should stop and linger.

That’s all behind her now,

which makes her wonder how,

he’s got beneath her skin

and still she thinks of him.

The pain is easing now

and life’s improved somehow,

the sun smiles on her face

in this her special place.

Friday, January 20, 2006

REMEMBER DEAR(an old favourite)

“REMEMBER DEAR”

“Remember this” you often say,
but I can’t think of yesterday,
for though I recount long ago,
my thoughts of yesterday are slow.

I remember when we met,
your winning smile and eyes deep set.
I walked my dog, he stopped to sniff
then you appeared, and wondered if,
I’d like to meet for tea and cake,
in order that a date we’d make.

I gave it not a second thought
and rushed back home with new dress bought
I tried it on a thousand times,
for I was yours, and you were mine,
from the precise second we met,
I’ve never had a slight regret.

I only wish that in between,
a clearer picture I could gleen,
for my thoughts are so muddled now,
a field of memories I plough.

Did I have children one by one,
was it four girls or just one son?
Who is this young man sat by me,
who holds my hand and pours my tea?

He looks like you my dearest one,
does that make him my only son,
or is he but a passer by?
I’m not quite sure, but mustn’t cry.

I seem to recall this nice place,
with all its flowers and open space,
Did we come here, just you and I,
to watch the stars shine in the sky?


Did you hold me so close at night,
and did we never really fight?
I seem to think that this is true,
for every time I look at you.

I feel a warmth from deep within,
it’s there beneath my very skin,
I only wish my mind was clear,
enough to say “remember dear”.