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?”

Remembrance Sunday 2018

This is all Saints Church in High Wycombe, the scene for the annual Remembrance Day march and wreath laying ceremony.  There is something about the place,  about the day and about the people that stirs the creative juices.  By simply observing, by simply listening, by simply being quiet and introspective, thoughts flow out.

The previous post ' A Minute's Silence' (see below) was written on the same day at this service three years ago.

If I am lucky, I quickly capture them on paper, make a few adjustments and send them out.  Apologies to the non linguists among us; the second poem 'Amy'  is written in Spanish as the encounter with her father as his daughter played with the 'fallen leaves' while other listened to the 'live' service   - he was Spanish.  It just felt right to pen it in his language.





'Amy'

Amy; no te sientas mientras los demás están parados

Amy; no te cojas las hojas caídas mientras las almas han sido llevadas

Amy; no te pongas las hojas por el fondo del árbol mientras entregamos las coronas por la cruz

A Minute's Silence

High Wycombe, 8th November 2015

 



Stand here a while and I'll tell you
If the guttering's clogged up with grass
Or if a shower of pigeons passed
While those two still necking on the ridge

The fox is sleeping

At the side of the road the fox lies sleeping
In the heart of farmland and homeland
Stretched out as if at ease
Legs obediently paired
Tailed tucked in, snout out in relief