Wycombe Writing Workshop March 2019

The six word challenge

BADGER               SETT                       FELL                       HUNT                    CATCHING           

REFUGE

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Pine trees pierced the black silhouette of the night sky. The orchestral lights displayed their brilliance. The fell valley, cloaked in darkness. An owl hooted in the emptiness. An anonymous rustle stole into the undergrowth.

I felt, as, step by step, my feet treading the leaf strewn trail, underneath, Mother Earth, refuge of Nature’s nocturnal nomads.  Briars clutching my jacket.  The terrain turned to assailant, catching me unaware. 

Sounds spooked me. Shadows danced. Sweat beaded my brow.  My boots cloyed with mud, an upturned tree trunk, orphan of last Winter’s storm, announced its blockade. STOP!

Refuge of the night, comfort of cubs, I stumbled into the gaping entrance of badgerdom, refuge of cubs, bringer of day, detritus of bones and fur, the sweet sick odour of upturned Earth, the Sett.

I clawed at branches, brambles, emptiness and hit the ground, a ringing in my ears. Did I hear the piercing wail of a horn, heralding a hunt, dogs braying, barking, bringing an eternal night?

The Book Stop

 The Book Stop

There is a bus stop on the West Wycombe /Princes Risborough  road just as you take the Princes Risborough road at the Pedestal garage, go under the bridge and it is immediately on the right hand side.

Someone has made the interior homely with cushions and books.   Instead of people waiting for buses, there are books waiting for people, hence the Book Stop.

I stop here on my way back on a Sunday 10 miles walk and pin a few poems to the wooden, back wall of the Book Stop.

Creative Writing Course (High Wycombe)

The Journey

“Wayfarer, hail ye! What brings you along this path?”

“The journey’s call “

“What does it foretell?”

“A beginning, and God willing, an end “

The traveler blinked as the sun stuttered, falling behind the crest of the whispering mountain.  He turned, paused and speechless.  The wayfarer left a shadow as his departure.   Little by little, the sun waned and he vanished.

The traveller continued along the time-worn course of the river, where ages carved the contours of the valley.  Time sports its victories, its defeats and its unclaimed medals of this barren land.  The traveller cloaked by the encroaching dark depths of day gone, spied a speck of light, a little, by little, beckoning, calling, seducing him onwards, onwards.  To a destination. To where?

 

“Is this beginning, or, is this the end?”