Shopping in Callender

Come on Scotland pull your bloody socks up. I have eyed up a special little pub for ages which sits at a place where I regularly take good photographs. It’s normally weekend when I go there and the place always looks like it’s heaving but today I decided to give it a try.

I was full of anticipation when I went in, nice ambience etc, although it appeared a little smokey and gloomy if I am being totally truthful. Smoke coming from log fire I hasten to add.

Service was okay, nothing spectacular, but the food, oh dear, what a disappointment. I had haddock in an ale batter. I nearly needed a hammer and chisel to get through it and in the end left it. No comment was made when my plate was taken, and I couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss at the table, but when I went to the bar I told them I wasn’t impressed with my grub. She immediately apologised and said she would have a word with the kitchen. I was fully reimbursed for my disastrous fish dish, but would so much have preferred to have had it done right.

I took a different turn today and ended up in Callender after stopping at various points and getting some great snaps. If you are used to good customer service please keep driving. I suddenly realised how different the garb is up here. It is the area of the Berghaus, the Goretex and anything else that keeps out the rain. The town is filled with outdoor clothing shops with prices that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. I thought I had the job sussed when I eventually found a nice two tone job in one shop til I discovered the price tag wasn’t £49 but £149. For an anorak that I will probably hank on a fence somewhere. No way, so it’ll be back to Ebay and the excitement of the auction. Failing that the charity shop hit is coming.

One shop in particular was worthy of a clip from a Les Dawson show. There they were the two shop “assistants” leaning on the counter, yapping away. I wasn’t acknowledged in any shape or form even though it was obvious I was a genuine purchaser or would be purchaser. I struggled with zips, hangers, you name it, but no, the conversation continued. Until eventually one of them went off for yes, you’ve guessed it the vaccum. Just after 4p.m. but that was the sole thought in the mind, to get finished. I thought sod it and left.

I thought I was almost there in the final shop which had an enormous stock, but it had rails designed for giraffes and the sizes I needed to get to, involved a bit of tip toe effort. The dizzy bisom behind the counter must have watched me struggle until I asked her if she had a bigger size. To which she replied “No sorry, we don’t ‘av it.” Then stuff started getting wheeled in so again it was time to go before the doors got locked.

After the disastrous food at lunch time I promised myself a nice coffee in Callender, but oh dear, I didn’t even get that. It was bitter and sucked in the sides of my mouth. So I am off now to make my own. Next time I go out I think I will take a picnic, it is cheaper and I know it will taste okay.

Compensation for the day? Some great photographs.

Shall I return to Callender? Perhaps, I will always give a place a second chance, but I know which shops I will be avoiding. And I will be wearing an anorak bought somewhere I have enjoyed decent service.

Best entertainment of the day? Watching the several near shunts in the Tesco express car park!!

THE ROAD TO HELL

THE ROAD TO HELL

It took one and a half hours to get there, so when I bade farewell to my good friends in Sandy I presumed it would take approximately the same time to get back home.

Trouble is on the way up I had downloaded a blow-by-blow account of how to reach my destination from the good old A.A. It literally delivered me to the doorstep. But silly me, I didn’t do one for the return journey.

Head for signs that say M25. That was all that was in my head. I kept seeing signs that said, London, and I thought, fine, just keep going, you’ve come this way before, you’ll eventually hit the M25. Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell.”

But then the signs changed to Central London. I chose to ignore this slight alteration, and kept the foot down, on and on we sailed until I realised the area was becoming more and more built up.

When an area sign for Holloway appeared I knew I was in trouble. But what do you do when you are a country bumpkin? You don’t panic that’s what and you keep on going.

It was a beautiful evening and I became envious of the people strolling around, with sweaters tied round their necks. Others sat contentedly outside welcoming pubs and sipped long cold drinks. I just kept on driving, I saw signs that said things I had heard of, like Centre point, but when this large, highly illuminated area loomed in front of me I was horrified to read the words Euston Station.

Oh my God, what now. I tried not to grip the wheel as if I was in a rollercoaster.

Should I phone daughter no 4 and get her to talk me out of London, should I phone home and get boss’s son to advise me or should I just get on with it or maybe even consult a friendly copper.

Isn’t it funny how signs vanish when you need them most?

I drove and drove…Nothing!!

Then there it was, M1 North. Bearing in mind I was trying to head south in the direction of Sevenoaks, which is the other side of Dartford, I knew this was well in the wrong direction, but I was past caring, I just needed to get out of the concrete jungle. So off I went.

Now here is the snippet that I simply did not know. I did not know that motorways had no roundabouts. I thought I only had to drive to the first roundabout, go round the bloody thing and I would be in the right direction.

So I drove and drove, and drove some more. I think there were signs for Buckinghamshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire and then there it was Birmingham 36 miles. BIRMINGHAM????? Oh no, this is crazy. Where’s the nearest Holiday Inn, maybe I should just get my head down for the night and set off again in the morning. Or maybe I should just give up and drive to Scotland and not bother going back to work.

I kept thinking, maybe if I go off at a slip road there will be a roundabout, so I stopped for petrol, yes I needed some by now, and asked the first friendly looking geezer in the petrol station shop. “Just go off and the next slip road pet and drive ‘til you hit the roundabout, and that will put you in the right direction.”

I smiled and said I wouldn’t embarrass myself by telling him where I was trying to reach, but I took his advice.

Soon I was heading South, so I put the foot down and sailed along, dreaming of my cosy bed. M25 Eureka, I never thought I would be glad to read that sign, but wait a minute what was this? Three lanes of traffic, all going nowhere. You know that awful scenario, half a car length every 3 minutes?

I fumbled for my Travel Sweets, rather aptly named don’t you think I ejected Enrique, sorry Enrique and cranked up Sir Mick with Start Me Up closely followed by one of my all time favourites Brown Sugar. I don’t know why, but it makes life a better place. My little red car, throbbed, pulsated and spluttered on, very, very slowly. Eventually another signed loomed. “August 1^st. M25 closed 12.00- 5.30a.m.” What? Closed? Oh bloody hell. This is a joke.

But there we were, Rollers, Ferraris, Cavaliers, Kas and my little red Seat.

Mile upon mile of start stop, start stop. Huge cranes, hard hats, muck and stoor (guid auld Scottish word).

I smiled, sucked another travel sweetie and thought, yes girl, you have made the right decision. Three weeks from now I start a new job back up in my beloved Scotland, far away from closed M25s and enormous cities.

I have never sighed such a relief as when I reached the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, and even there they only had two tollbooths open. This was midnight on a Wednesday night. And all you could see both ways was a serpentine of headlights snaking their way north and south. Thousands of poor other sods, with Sat Navs, tired children and grumpy partners.

I reversed into my little corner at the side of the garage at 12.40a.m.

I left Sandy, Bedfordshire at 7.15p.m. Lots of people reading this will laugh, in fact everyone that I have told the woeful tale has giggled and shook their head, but for me it was still a triumph. I drove in the midst of London, me the original country girl, I didn’t panic and although I took the scenic route home I did get home. But maybe next time I will download the return route directions. Just incase…

And remember motorways have no roundabouts.

FINELLA

FINELLA

Coal black hair,

cat green eyes,

and a look that could

put you through the floor,

this was Finella,

this was my mother.

Intelligent, warm,

she reminisced about India,

tigers, servants and love,

mostly about love.

Vivacious, captivating,

but frighteningly complicated

at times even scary

as she battled with demons

that incited great rages.

She dealt with officialdom

like it wasn’t there,

no one questioned her,

ever,

it simply never happened

yet she never raised her voice,

simply an eyebrow that had

pedantic bullies shaking in their shoes.

Words were her weapon, her manipulating tool,

spoken or written with great panache.

Her flamboyant writing mirrored her image,

in an almost uncanny way,

as she dreamed her unfulfilled dream.

Getting the Finger out.

I have been suffering a double dose of procrastination of late so was doubly surprised when I tried to log in tonight and found I needed to use my Google account. The thing is I have been back up in Scotland, enjoying precious time with all my girls and grandchildren. There are some things that money just can't buy and a day like I had on the beach last Sunday at beautiful Elie has given me memories I shall cherish always.

All I want to do is get back to Scotland and after a recent interview it is looking as though my dream is going to come true. I will say no more right now for fear of jeopardizing events, but hopefully my next entry will see me back where I belong, away from the concrete jungle of the south where even the most ramshackle shack of a house is making silly money that no one can afford.

I keep thinking about two things; one, what is happening in China, where thousands and thousands of dogs and cats are being brutally killed. Not just an ordinary death I hasten to add, but a slow lingering fate, because it gives more flavour that way. For Christ's sake, what sort of a world do we live in?

And like every other mother on the planet I think of little Madeleine and what has become of her and all the other children who right now should be home in their in their beds. If only we could wave a magic wand and wake up tomorrow morning to good news. What a happy day that would be.

I need to start thinking about how I am going to transport all my "guff" back to Scotland. Blimey I need to do some serious downsizing in the wardrobe department, but hurrah, hurrah, I will soon be back in the land of good National Hunt racing. God Bless the full length cashmere Jaeger coat purchased for a fiver.

DILEMMAS (published in Countryside Tales)

DILEMMAS (A Winter Tale)

Dilemmas, now there’s a word that conjures up all sorts of images. People have different definitions of what a dilemma is. For me it is being faced with a situation that is going to cause some sort of problem whatever way you turn. My Roget’s Thesaurus calls a dilemma a predicament, a dubiety, a choice or an argumentation.

Whichever of these things it is, it calls for quick action, fingers crossed on a wing and a prayer.

One of my most memorable dilemmas involved a suicidal cow. Yes, I mean one that says moo. She was a Friesian cross Hereford suffering from milk fever. Don’t ask me why, but cows suffering from such a thing, are inclined to position themselves next to water. This lady was no exception, apart from the fact that she decided that not only would she lie close to the water, but in it.

I watched from the relative cosiness of the farmhouse, with my four young daughters racing round my feet. My bovine friend was now well and truly kneeling in the swirling burn that runs through the bottom of what was known as the ‘Front Field’. She lowered her head, she was giving up. My heart started thumping, panic setting in. I needed to get to her, save her, but I couldn’t do it alone. There was also the question of what to do with four small children, but when you are in your twenties dilemmas like that don’t faze you. Hubby was off chasing the oval ball somewhere. (Why do dilemmas invariably happen when the man in your life isn’t around?) Dilemma 2 reared its ugly head. I knew who I needed to help me, but I also knew where he would be, and that was somewhere he shouldn’t. There was no time to debate the ethics of phoning up the home of the married lady who was the object of our tractorman’s desire; I had a cow dying in front of me.

In my most pleasant upbeat voice I asked to speak to Roy, and yes, it was urgent.

After blabbing out the words cow in river (for it was more like a river than a burn) I told him I was on my way down there with the kids and could he please come and help me. Being a conscientious sort of guy, he didn’t let me down.

I shooed my foursome into the Subaru and set off down the front field. Four little faces peered in wonderment as I waded into the ice-cold water and lifted her head rather ungainly by the ears. You would not believe how heavy a cow’s head is.

The little faces now looked very concerned, not for mummy, but for the poor cow. Her calf sat quietly on the riverbank, seemingly unaware that there was a strong prospect he would become an orphan. I cannot remember what month it was, but it was obviously during the rugby season and it was definitely winter. I had all the necessary wet weather gear, waterproof trousers, coat, Wellingtons but the icy water made short shift of it all, my feet felt like blocks of ice as the water poured into my Wellingtons. I heard a distant drone that became welcomingly louder. The red Massey Ferguson came zooming down the road to the bottom gate. By now I felt as though my back would never straighten and my fingers would need to be amputated with frostbite. I barely looked up; instead I concentrated my efforts on some soothing words, punctuated with the odd “silly bugger”

“I’m going to reverse right back. Ye’ll need to try and get the chains roond aboot her” Shouted Roy above the revving tractor. The little faces were mesmerised. Nothing as exciting as this ever happened on the telly.

At times like this, you don’t worry too much about if you are going to hurt the animal in question, (another dilemma perhaps) more that if you don’t get a move on, she’s going to be gone to the big cattle shed in the sky. Roy reversed the tractor down the banking, flung me the chains as he jumped from his cab. I cursed and swore and swore some more as between us we managed to get the chains round her neck and under a front leg. Meanwhile Roy kept giving her a slap, trying to get her to come to her senses and stand up. When the penny eventually dropped that she was having none of it, he whizzed back to his cab and started to slowly inch forward, as I screeched instructions. The Subaru by this time was totally steamed up and four little faces clapped loudly and roared “Hurrah”when we eventually got the poor beast free of the water.

Naturally her calf was on the far side, so again Roy and I waded through the water to chase the little creature further downstream where it was more accessible for him to cross. The job was done, mother was soon unchained but somewhat weakened by her ordeal. We opted to leave her out rather than put her through the ordeal of being taken up the hill and into a byre. Before we released her we rubbed her down with straw. She didn’t even try to go anywhere, but lay back down with her feet tucked in below her. I shook out a bale for her to have a warm lie, and spread more straw across her back.

I thanked Roy for all his help and managed to refrain from apologising for dragging him away from his ‘friend’. After all, I wasn’t supposed to know what was going on!!

‘Ever the gentleman, he doffed his cap, then turned to the cow and said ‘Stipit bitch.’

Frozen but happy I squelched back into my car to enthusiastic applause from the children.

We jostled and bumped our way back up the field, to the next dilemma, what to make for tea.

A few years later we built a rather grand new shed to house our cows and calves, thus eliminating the chance of a repeat performance of my Winter dip.

COMFORTABLE SILENCE

We don’t need a special day

to celebrate our love.

Every day with you is special.

From the second you touched my hand

I knew that you were the one

I would love ‘til the day I die.

It’s not in the words you say

though they are special enough,

more in the comfortable silence.

And in the knowledge that

there have never been restrictions

and that, my darling, is true love.

FLAT BLACK CAT

FLAT BLACK CAT

I drove by in a trice,

with the usual tailgater

up my arse.

But I saw you,

lying there,

flattened, silent.

Covered in dust,

from days by the verge

forgotten, lost, but sadly dead.

I wondered if,

you belonged to someone,

did you sometimes sit on a knee

and offer a gleeful chin,

to be stroked and caressed

or were you the original TC,

a knight of the road,

a feral, living rough,

but still welcoming kindness?

Whatever the answer is,

I wish that I knew,

so that I could rest

and not be sad,

about the little cat,

at the side of the road.

POLKA DOT DAYS

Purple lupins, ten feet tall,

just a dream, just a wish,

beneath soft pink apple blossom,

that floats like gossamer on the faintest breeze.

Happy days, happy times,

nurturing sweet peas to clamber across

grey painted trellis, grey for effect,

worked well too.

So many sounds, touches,

emotions, today and always,

thinking of you, with your coal black curls,

cat green eyes and toffee apple smile.

Fun and laughter were your friends,

you taught them to be mine,

you showed me the beauty of the rose,

and what lies behind the thorns.

Each scarlet geranium takes me back

to the times when a little girl looked into

the rainwater tank, while you filled the can

that sometimes filled imaginary rivers.

You wore a polka dot dress tightly grasped

by a broad scarlet belt, you were my princess,

I wanted a dress like yours, to be so pretty,

just like you, my princess, my mum.

Even your shoes were scarlet leather,

cosseting dainty feet that loved to dance.

Laughter filled your life and mine,

and on the air the scent of Gingham perfume.

Gingham for week days, Tweed for Sundays,

a little bit here and a little bit there,

always my friend, always my mum

this morning, I thought I heard you calling.

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

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.

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.

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”.

MORE THAN THIS

MORE THAN THIS

Next time that he screams at you
and calls you an old hag,
a stuck up bitch, a selfish cow
a slapper or a bag,
just catch your breath
remind yourself,
that you’re worth more than this.

And when somebody comments
on how good you look today
just smile and then say ‘Thankyou,
how nice of you to say.’
Ignore the sulks and snide remarks
for you’re worth more than this.

When he forgets your birthday
and turns up late each night,
remember what I’ve told you
and keep your morale bright.
For one day you will recognise
that you’re worth more than this.

And when he rants and raves at you
and points his shaking finger,
just turn your back and close your eyes,
don’t think to even linger.
But keep on walking out that door
for you’re worth more than this.

And when you fully accept
that what I say is true
your confidence will re-emerge
and show you what to do.
Bid him goodbye and walk away
for you’re worth more than this.

Don’t worry that he’ll be alone
suffering a broken heart
he’ll be out there with all his charm
to find another start.
Be grateful you’ve made your escape
for you’re worth more than this.

THE END OF THE ROAD.

THE END OF THE ROAD

Terrified little bodies,
cling to the branches
high in the rain forest trees.
E.U. money built the road
that causes their despair.

It aids the removal of plundered timber,
so that someone’s fat backside
can sit in the depth of a chair
upholstered in wood from right here.

Louder they scream
as flames burn them from the trees
they thought were their sanctuary.
Where do they go now?

Shall I leap or die?
Maybe I will die anyway.
There is no time for reason
as they flail into the unknown.

One brave man with a giant heart
tries to save them.
But what can he do against such odds?
Where does he turn for help?

The chimps did bite the hand that feeds them,
as he displays on television, one digit removed,
by teeth that knew no better,
he bears no grudge.

Through the media’s eyes
he pleads for help,
unable to forsake his little friends.
He shows the plight of those in the trees,
that are threatened by the road
built with E.U. money.

He shows shattered bodies,
orphaned babies,
and broken hearts,
clutching to man,
still able to trust.

While we sit and do nothing,
in our nice warm homes,
with fancy new furniture
made with rain forest wood.

Where will it end?
At the end of the road?
Best start right here,
don’t buy rain forest wood.

You need somewhere to sit?
Well sit anywhere,
with Norwegian pine,
not rain forest wood.

You need somewhere to dine?
Well dine anywhere
with oak, yew or ash,
not rain forest wood.

Remember those eyes,
that hide in the trees,
as they plunder the woods,
to satisfy greed,
that waits at the end of the road.

AURORA'S DANCE

AURORA’S DANCE
She goes about her normal chores, checks the washing machine, feeds the cat, packs his case, washes out the muck he has left in the bath, and lifts the skin he has picked off his feet and left on the lounge floor. That’s how he sees her, someone to pick up the dead skin and clean out the bath. She re-arranges the towels that he leaves in a rumpled heap, woman’s work.
His case is packed, the clothes neatly folded, the toiletries wrapped in a poly bag, toilet bags are for wimps and he’s no wimp. She packs the book he has never tried to read. A book she spent hours choosing.
Last night she performed her wifely duties, longing for it to end. There is no passion left, now it is just another chore. Words like “slag” and “slapper” put paid to that. Each word another chip off any remaining affection; each utterance piercing her heart, until it is numbed with pain. But she is no slag; she is a lady, a lady who has forgotten how to live, a lady caught up in a trap of humiliation, false promises and financial disasters. Her dignity lies in tatters. She bides her time, like a big cat watching her prey.
He arrives home welcomed by a cup of steaming tea, sugared and stirred. His eyes search for something to criticise, as he throws down the coat he knows she will lift. He moves the plant a foot to the right of the window. Why does she always have things in the wrong place?
‘Have you got my bag ready. For God’s sake woman, I’ve told you before I don’t like that bloody shirt.’
She smiles, not uttering a word, picks out the shirt and flits upstairs. She almost takes the stairs two at a time, but then she restrains herself. (Mustn’t look too keen.) She returns with another shirt, ironed and folded. She drifts around the house looking for jobs to keep her mind occupied. Her head feels ready to burst, her heart thumps wildly.
‘Time to go’ he yells, stepping into the driver’s seat. He’s always in the driver’s seat. Inside she bubbles with excitement, but she must remain calm, as they drive to the airport in silence. Tom Petty sings “Learning to Fly” on the radio. She will remember that song for the rest of her life.
At the bustling airport she places a lukewarm kiss on his lips. She waves him goodbye, as he walks to Gate 6, the Gate that will open her life.
She arrives home, and sighs with relief as she fills the kettle for a much needed cup of tea. She’ll make cauliflower cheese tonight. He doesn’t like it so it’s a rare treat.
‘Did Steve get away okay?’ Jess asks, lifting her head from her book.
‘Yes, he got away okay’.
She stares out the window mesmerised. Aurora has come out tonight, flirting across the sky like a magic lantern, gyrating and turning her coat of many colours. ‘Aurora is celebrating my freedom. How amazing!’ But tonight her heart dances with Aurora. She stands there cherishing the moment. It can be hours if she wants, for tonight she can please herself.
The shrill of the phone shocks her back to reality
‘Did everything go according to plan. Have you told Jess yet?’
‘No, not yet, maybe I should wait ‘til the morning. I want her to have a good sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow.’
‘Okay its up to you, but I’ll be there waiting. Don’t doubt you’re doing the right thing, you should have left that bastard years ago’.
‘Okay, see you tomorrow.’
She replaces the receiver and sighs, knowing her brother is right. She knew she was not the failure, Libby her friend convinced her of that.
“Don’t let him pull you down,” she said.
“I should know, I left one just like him years ago.”
For a fleeting moment she recalls the good times, the hours of passion, the tearing at each other’s clothes, the longing, the tender moments, the promises. But like everything in his life, she was just a novelty, something to become tired of. Even the doting stepfather act didn’t last. Sulks and bad tempers manifested themselves if Claire should spend too much time with her daughter. And should the two older siblings visit, war would commence once they were gone. Anything that could possibly detract from her absolute attention was treated with contempt. The good times are a faded memory, obliterated by years of taunting, intimidation and humiliation. She understood the inability to relate, caused by a scarred childhood, and made great allowances for his behaviour.
Her brother in America cared only that she should escape from her life of torment. He wanted his sister back, not this broken spirit that phoned him regularly in tears. He wanted her to look pretty again. Her wardrobe was filled with clothes from the charity shop, but she still had style; style that caused insatiable jealousy. Insecurities became her persecution. But the persecution was over. He was gone; away on business, expecting her to be waiting dutifully at the airport when he returned. This time he would need to find his own way home.
‘Jess, what would you say if I told you we were going to America’.
She waited with pounding heart for her daughter’s reply.
Jess rose from her chair and smiled. Without a word she crossed the room and hugged her mother.
‘What took you so long Mum, what took you so long?’
Just then the sound of a car on the gravel made her jump. Before she reached the window he was there in the hall.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
Oh God, could this really be happening, had she been so bad he was punishing her like this. Thank goodness her cases were out of sight.
‘Changed my jacket didn’t I and left my wallet in the old one. Wouldn’t get far without it, and as usual when I try to ring you’re on the phone. Who were you talking to anyway? Just as well, they got me booked on a later flight.
Relief chased through her system, she hoped it didn’t show. Jess carried out the part of the relaxed daughter beautifully. She obviously wanted this as much as her mother.
She descended the stairs clutching his wallet.
‘Can’t believe you let me go without my wallet. Don’t worry about taking me to the airport, don’t want to put you out.’ His sarcasm went over her head.
‘The taxi’s waiting outside for me.’ He glanced towards the pan of simmering cauliflower. ‘Christ that stuff stinks!’ He stomped out the door, without closing it. Why bother when there’s a woman there to do it for you.

Writing Writers Short Story comp. Prize winner.

Home Sweet Home

HOME SWEET HOME

I like the house with those big leafy plants in Seabank Road. The chairs are ever so comfy, so comfy I could nearly nod off. That isn’t part of the plan, but mind you the old toffs that live there are probably so deaf they wouldn’t even hear me snoring if they did land back early. You always know a toff’s house, the walls are covered with oil paintings. Their desks and all that stuff are usually smothered with photographs.
They like velvet curtains, lined so the sun doesn’t damage their ancient furniture. I can’t believe anyone likes that kinda stuff anyway. They’ve got a nice Labrador though, soft as putty, wags and slobbers all the time. He followed me up to the bedroom, when I was having a look. Their old bed doesn’t half dip in the middle, but then they’ve been dipping into its middle for about fifty years by the look of them. They keep a nice little kid’s bedroom, all fluffy toys and books about Peter
Rabbit and Harry Potter. Suppose that’s for the grandchildren when they come. There’s a single bed with a pink cover and bunk beds with racing car covers. Maybe it’s two boys and a girl that come to visit.
I like the big front bedroom, with the twin beds, all done out with paintings of the sea, and there’s a big ornament thing of a blacksmith shoeing a horse. Looks like it’s all been hand made and painted. Must have taken a long time. I don’t think I could be bothered. The beds are covered with cream coloured candlewick bedspreads, with a twirly rosette thing in the middle. I don’t see those anywhere else I go. In the winter I sit in the kitchen. It’s got one of them big cookers that are on all the time, with two big round hot plates. One plate is usually open with a kettle sitting on the side and the other is shut with clothes piled on top, usually a couple of tea towels too.
They never lock their back door, so it’s easy to walk straight in. Bet they don’t even know I’ve been there. I even bring the dog a biscuit now; he likes the ones that look like a sausage roll. He nearly took my fingers off the first time I gave him one, but I’m getting him educated now. Imagine me, educating anyone!
The old lady bakes. Cor, I had one of her scones last week, she leaves them out to cool on a mesh tray, just like my gran. It was wicked!
Funny isn’t it, how those old people have a nice tidy home, even if I don’t like the furniture much, and then you get that Mrs. Adams. She goes posing off every day at lunchtime. Her house is a right old tip. She leaves dishes in the sink, crumbs on the sides, and there’s never anything in the fridge. Wonder what her old man eats when he gets back at night. Probably one of those frozen dinners she’s got stuffed in the freezer. She doesn’t even make the bed before she gets herself all dolled up and off. The bedroom’s a right old state, clothes flung everywhere. Her hairbrush is stuffed with hair, and she used dirty old make up sponges. I read in one of mum’s magazines that it’s important to use clean sponges or you’ll give yourself a skin infection.
She’s messing about with Jackie Tynedrum’s dad. I’ve seen them meeting out the back of Tesco’s. It’s a bit of a shame really. I like Jackie’s mum, she’s always been kind to me. Heard her saying something about my `traumatic childhood`. Anyway, she deserves better than that smarmy old git. She goes out working in the factory at the end of Toppen Road, and her useless man chases Mrs. Adams when he’s supposed to be out fixing washing machines. Wonder if that’s how they met. She jumps in his van and off they go. Do they really think no one knows what’s going on? I saw them coming out of Hillberry Wood one day. How desperate is that? She should concentrate on tidying up that tip of hers. Her cat’s always sitting on the worktops. I wouldn’t want to be eating in her house!
I bet she’s never even noticed that one or two of her videos have walked. She’s so dizzy anyway; I have them back before she’s got time to notice.
Old Grace Dixon is so crippled she can hardly make it down to the shops and the day centre, but her house is like a new pin compared to that lazy cow’s. Just as well I went in there the other day, she hadn’t switched her tap off properly in the kitchen. The water was just dripping on to the floor, when I turned the key in her lock. Fancy keeping keys under the mat. They just don’t get it do they?
She must be lonely after losing old Stan. She keeps a photo of him by her bed, and another one in his naval uniform sits on her sideboard, next to that old wooden biscuit barrel. She keeps all her cash in that biscuit barrel. One of these days she’ll get robbed. She still makes a pot of soup like as if she was feeding Stan; tastes good too. It must be hard when you’ve been together all that time, just like the old codgers in Seabank Road.
Mrs. Munro in Dovecote Place keeps a nice house. There’s never a speck of dust anywhere, and always a lovely smell of polish. She gets her hair done every Friday, and usually leaves at about 1.30 p.m. Her big room at the front of the house is quite something. She has a big bay window with deep orange coloured velvet curtains. The wallpaper is one shade deeper with gold swirls. It looks really good. On the other side of the hallway, she has a dining room with a table that shines so much you can see your face in it. The wallpaper looks like strands of ribbon, a pale shade of lilac. There’s velvet curtains in there too, and a wonderful old radio gramophone with lids that shut themselves slowly. Not like all this new junk, made of plastic. But it’s her back room that is fantastic. She’s got this whole wall covered in wallpaper that makes a mountain scene. It has blue skies, log cabins, snow-capped mountains and a lake in the foreground. I sometimes sit and imagine I live in the cabin way up on the hill. And of course, she’s got this daft cat that rubs himself against me all the time and purrs the loudest purr I’ve ever heard. He’s a beautiful cat, black with a white breast and white paws. There’s a silly little cat house thing outside the back door, but I bet he’s never used it in his life. He likes to sit on the windowsill in the back porch. That’s where I found the key underneath the golf clubs in the corner.
My favourite house is still Fern Cottage. I just love the way it sits so far back off the road. I can climb across the fence from the allotments round the back and even sit in the front room. No one can see. The big plum tree shades the windows. The windows all rattle a bit, but the owner isn’t there half the time, so he doesn’t seem to bother too much. It’s great in the winter. Sandy White checks it every Monday, and does a bit of raking in the garden and then that’s him until the following week. I’ve enjoyed many books from the shelves in the study, while the owner sits in the sun in Spain.
I feel like a little piece of these houses belong tome. After all I’m the one who appreciates them. I’m the one who speaks to the Labrador and the cat. The little bedroom at the back of Fern Cottage is just so nice I wish it was mine. It never looks like it gets used. It’s a funny little room, with its sliding door, white walls and rose-pink curtains. The tiny window pushes out and is held by one of those old fashioned catches. When you lie on your back on the comfy single bed, you can hear the pigeons cooing in the big oak tree. I fell asleep there for hours once. I feel safe there. The bed’s so comfortable. I had to take my shoes off because the bedspread is white lace. Sounds soppy for a boy, but if feels like a bed for a princess.
I don’t suppose they’ll ever notice what I took from under that bed. It’s obviously been there for years, and I just thought it would look good on my wall.
Haven’t got much since the `Social` put me into this bedsit, but it’s still better than watching that drunken sod use Mum as a punchbag.
Children used to make these things years ago, before they all had telly. They used to sit for hours just doing them. Samplers they’re called. There’s even a name embroidered in the bottom right hand corner. Mary Thomas.
Well, Mary Thomas, thank you for your handiwork. I appreciate it even if Fern Cottage didn’t.
Look at that, ` Home Sweet Home` with a little house and roses and all.

Published in Writers News. First Prize Winner D.S.J.T. Trust/Writers News.

The Keeper of The Hour

THE KEEPER OF THE HOUR

A step, a breath
a smile, a tear
each one a pulse of passing time,
beating relentlessly
and drifting like flotsam
on the ocean swell.
Wafting out of sight
and mind only to
return to shore.

Where beachcombers linger
searching for the message
in the bottle that may
change their lives forever.

As grains of sand
whisk stubbornly
into barefoot toes
walking the path of life
leaving footprints in the sand
that becomes the keeper
of the hour.

Prize winner in Freelance Market News.

Innocent Eyes

INNOCENT EYES


What do I say to innocent eyes,
when they look up at me,
asking ‘What do they mean by a nuclear attack,
is it something I can see?’

How do I shield her from evil unknown,
where can we go that is minus,
fanatical groups, filled with venom and hate,
with only her loved ones beside us?

What can I promise to protect her mind,
from worries and fears creeping in?
Help me to make this small girl’s world complete,
Help me to free it from sin.

Innocence nurtures a questioning voice,
Innocence lets her have sleep,
uninterrupted by worrying thoughts,
which I must endeavour to keep.

Far, far away in the pit of my heart,
far, far away from this child,
let us join hands in a prayer for our young,
so that we are reconciled.

If we don’t correct all the bad things around,
what future is there for us all,
why can’t we stop wanting more all the time,
why do we not hear the call.

The call has gone out to protect all our souls,
to listen, and look all around,
for if we don’t heed all the warnings,
there soon won’t be time to compound.

These innocent eyes must not fill with tears,
of sadness for childhood destroyed,
by the whims of greedy and evil mankind,
whose armourments must be deployed.

I cuddle her now in the warmth of my breast,
as she closes her eyes and drifts off,
to a land filled with peace and a bright shining light
and the white gleaming wings of a dove.

Ottakar's Prize winner, Inverness