The Milking Hour

Dawn sunlight flickered through the laced curtain of the downstairs living room, door opening out to the farmyard.   Martin peered at the small figurines on his breakfast bowl, a blue willow pattern, of wind swept willows and Chinese peasants – he thought, one day, he would like to go to this place – while a clang of creamery cans from the dairy and the spill of slithering byre chains broke his dreaming.

“Auntie, auntie, may I leave the table? It’s time to fetch the cows for milking.”

Aunt Martha came across from the warm stove to the breakfast table “You finished your cereal?” Martin’s nod and her approving wink set him free.

https://youtu.be/DCO3xgiL1EU

Poems talking - Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

There is something comforting about poetry, about specific poems, 

that speak to us from shores of sleep or un-resting thoughts. 

They like a light in the darkness, a quiet voice from afar, from ages gone and echo back to us again.

" I cannot rest from travel; I will drink life to the lees:"

A Spring Morning 春晓

March 14th 2020 Writing Club – Wycombe Arts Centre 

Six words: Princesses, engaged, collections, first-born, apple, copper 

Title: First Born 

Two moons cast strange shadows around her as she made her way to the final gathering. 

Two months passed since her election as firstborn princess to the throne.   

Two minds lead to the decision not to stand.  Faced with her greatest fears. Doubt.  Self-loathing.  Persecution.

Writing class exercise Wycombe Arts Centre 21 - Sept

NECESSITY-WORM-BELIEF-CLARITY-THINGS-GLASS 

Title: Worm 

 

The ancient tome lay opened on the student scarred desktop, carved with time-worn initials, indecipherable save for a fragment of a year, someone’s missing surname , a faint hieroglyphic of an astral body; musings of idle scholars minds long since gone to their celestial graduation. 

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.