Of the beholder.
THE VEILED LADY
by
Romayne Peters
She’s easy to draw.
Gowned in black, head to floor,
Just dark, questioning eyes gazing out,
She gives nothing away,
Has she nothing to say?
Is she dressed thus from choice?
Or had she no voice,
In this matter?
At the end of the session
He will ask just one question
Will she grant him the sight of her face?
But customs are strange,
One can’t always arrange
That people should blend,
Make friends,
Get together.
Let separateness stay,
Why find another way?
Be one naked or covered,
Be one short,
Be one tall,
The world is a big place
With room for us all.
DAY FOR DUCKS
by
Gillian Clifford
The peaceful pool, two black acres of it, shone in the reflected light of the sun. It was mid-afternoon on this cold, clear winter’s day. No breeze and no sound except the occasional comfortable noise of ducks and moorhens moving about in the reeds surrounding the pool. It all seemed set for another leisurely evening of quietness and the gentle onset of night.
But was it? Stealthily moving half-bent figures were taking up positions at the outer edge of the reeds. No voices, no sound, no warning of what was to come.
Then an explosion of sound - a strident hunting horn announced the beginning of the afternoon’s fun. Dogs plunged forward breaking through the tall reeds, up to their bellies in water, followed by beaters in high waterproof boots. A multitude of terrified ducks rose to the sky in confused panic in a desperate bid to escape. Then the first sharp crack of a 12-bore rang out, then another and another. Two small bodies plunged, scarring the still surface of the water. Then more slaughter and the quacking of injured ducks: shouts from the successful shots and excited splashing and scrabbling from the retrieving dogs, their mouths dripping with water and feathers.
Many ducks got away, but there was the sound of broken wings thrashing among the reeds and the cries of encouragement from the sportsmen as the damaged ducks were retrieved and dispatched.
The killing was considered a success. When carefully laid out there were thirteen ducks - mallard, widgeon and the tiny teal with their brilliant glossy, iridescent feathers damaged and stained with blood. Their plumage already showed the dullness of death.
Suddenly it was all over and the guns moved away, the dogs with their muddied coats and their noses positioned as near as possible to the afternoon’s catch, looked as satisfied as the rest of the party.
The crunch of boots and the laughter gradually faded and there was again silence, except for the hum of approaching wings as the disturbed ducks, the lucky ones, began returning to their pool.
Now again there was cold silence. The only visible movement – the reflection of the lazy passing clouds in the black water of the pool – and a drifting acrid smell of cigarette smoke.
THE ODDMENTS DRAWER
by
Jill Lawson
If there's some little item
That you’re hunting for
You’ll probably find it
In my oddment drawer.
There are stubs of old pencils
Both slender and chubby ;
And two India rubbers
Decidedly grubby!
Birthday cake candles
From long, long ago
And a photo of us
Having fun in the snow.
There’s glue that has leaked
On the floor of the drawer
And some small sticking plasters
If your finger’s sore.
But beware that you rummage
At risk of your life -
It has long lost its sheath
The sharp, sharp Stanley knife!
There’s a small length of chalk
That’s created some dust,
And some screws and some nails
All afflicted with rust
There is a joke from a cracker,
Some coins from abroad
(They now have the Euro
So WHY do I hoard?)
You’ll find pieces of string
But not very long
And a half tube of Polos
The words of a song.
There’s even some raffia,
Just a few strands:
Drawing pins, paper clips
Elastic bands,
Fountain pen cartridges
(No longer fit)
A pattern for knitwear
That I’ll never knit,
Offers of items
That I’ll never buy
Bargains whose sell-by-date’s
Long since gone by.
I’ve quite forgotten
What you asked me for,
But at least I have tidied
My beloved oddment drawer!
MY SAN JOSE HOME
by
Dot Ellison.
I went from work to my new home
In a split second.
It was like the time travel
You see on the television
But with a deafening drum roll.
I stopped my work and ran with wobbly,
Shaking legs and heart pounding,
Down the tunnel away from
The calamitous sound.
Other men were running too.
It was amazing that no one fell,
Speed and precision were essential.
I was screaming but could not hear
Myself or any of the other men.
The lights went out.
In the pitch black we relied on our helmet lamps
To point the way ahead.
The dust was all enveloping.
I could not breathe so I raised my arms
To protect my face.
Then ahead where I knew was a gallery
I found myself merging with my colleagues
And our multiple beams answered
Our panic stricken situation.
Gradually the rumblings faded in the distant tunnels.
Everyone was very loud in their own way,
But we only realised the intensity of our plight,
When the earth went silent and the dust settled.
We too became deathly silent, briefly.
Maybe our tomb would bury us where we stood.
We gathered together and called out
Our names, one by one.
Mario Gomez, 63, counted each name
That was called out loud,
“Is anyone missing?” he asked quietly.
There were some murmurs and muttered names,
But all had a reply.
The names counted came to thirty three.
Some men were genuflecting,
Crossing themselves frantically or pleading for mercy.
I was coughing and spluttering
And began to cry in sheer terror.
Whereupon, tall Pedro took me in his arms
And cradled me for my comfort,
As much as for his own, as he was shaking too.
“Well,” said Pablo “we’d better work as
A team as only miners know how,
To keep each other alive.
We all know how deep we are, 623 metres,
And the odds of them saving us in time.
So, while we have light let’s pool our
Resources to see how long we can last.
We could be here a very long time
If they can get some air, food and drink
Down to us, we must care for each other.
If anyone is not coping, we must comfort them.”
He said, “Let us pray and give thanks
to the Lord
That we are all alive and not too injured.”
So we all knelt down in the dust and prayed.
We didn’t even think to ask for help at that stage.
We took one moment at a time.
Even though we were four different faiths
We prayed together as one voice.
Time stood still for us.
Keeping alive for our families and friends was our priority.
Our prayers asked for help to keep strong,
And help to care for one another
Before we asked for help in rescue.
You see, once you are ready to give up your life,
Staying alive seems less arduous.
The older men organised us with rations
Of a mouthful of tuna fish and a
Mouthful of water every second day.
Our tomb was our home,
Our home was a living hell.
There was always someone
Who needed comforting, even the strongest.
Usually I needed reassurance
But then, when my spirits where raised,
I was able to return the favour of hope.
One of the tunnel cutter tractors
Provided us with light,
But it had to be spared to save the batteries,
Otherwise we were mostly in the dark.
It was the most terrifying time in my whole life.
Then one day, when near to despair,
A distant buzzing could be heard.
Was it our ears playing a cruel trick
Or could we hear drilling?
We fell silent.
Suddenly the small drill fell into our cave
And the shrill grinding stopped.
Before long a miniature camera was
Lowered, swinging around, searching for life.
Our euphoria erupted from our dank, smelly hole.
We were found! But there would still be a wait.
Now the serious drilling could follow.
With a hole the size of a grapefruit,
We knew we couldn’t escape that way
But hope soared in our breasts.
We hugged one another,
Smiling, for the first time in seventeen days
As bottles of water, rice with chicken sauce,
Even a yoghurt dessert for all appeared
And a camera to be close to our families.
Once we’d settled down for a five month wait
Knowing that a man-sized tunnel was coming
Our hope turned to calm acceptance. We had contact with our loved ones
And a postal service had commenced.
To wake up each time after sleep,
Was a reinforced nightmare,
Which slowly turned to gratitude
For actually feeling another day, still alive.
It was a miracle. We could have all perished.
But no. The drilling became louder
This time we knew it had a larger bore,
Hopefully, wide enough for one of us.
Suddenly it broke through our steamy cavity,
Followed by brave medics to prioritise our dispatch.
There was no panic. Mario Gomez
Went up first as he had pneumonia.
He was encapsulated, standing upright, alone
For quarter of an hour. We were taken
One each hour. I was next. I am the youngest.
I desperately wanted to go,
But I was scared of being alone
For the first time in ten weeks.
I prayed all the way up, that I would see
My family soon, and that the capsule wouldn’t jam.
Camaraderie was what kept us alive
Along with our country’s prayers
And the whole world’s care.
One friend recalled it as, “Being in hell,
But also living with God’s love.”
I later discovered that our safe rescue
Had been a world wide co-operation.
The drill rig and drill bit from
Pennsylvania in U.S.A.,
And the video equipment from Japan.
The rescue pod which brought us up,
Was built in and arrived from Germany
Who had been overseeing the whole operation.
The food had been deliberately
Kept healthy but slimming so as to fit us
In the rescue pod, only twenty inches wide.
So it just shows what the world
Can achieve when we all work together,
As a team, without fighting.
I will forever be in their debt.
3 AM, NEW YEARS DAY, 1998
near Lugwardine Bridge
by
Paul Young
All the stars are out to greet the year
A new moon lies upon her back,
In the starlight a girl is walking home,
Tall, wrapped in a velvet cloak, striding with ease.
Beauty in starlight, like the poet's song.
Foolish, how foolish, yet in youth so wise.
To taste the still and brilliant hour alone,
Firm in her memory fix the frosty stars,
And captive forever, hold fast the sickle moon.
APPRECIATION
by
Jill Lawson
There is so much
I love about the snow;
I love the quietness which descends
Upon the land,
When traffic is hushed,
And folk go gently, slow,
And, sometimes hand in hand.
And there are times I welcome limitations,
The world grown smaller when confined to home.
Sometimes I gladly cancel invitations,
Tackle a domestic duty, long postponed,
I love the sudden surge of neighbourliness,
As people volunteer to shop or clear the street,
For those of us unsteady on our feet..
I love the courage that the birds will show;
(Bird-watching is much easier in the snow)
And mealworms spurned
In summer’s sun-drenched days,
Are pecked at speed under my watchful gaze.
The blackbird, starling, robin, blue-tit feast,
A little bickering, but never waste.
I love the days when winter sun breaks through.
And walking, when the world seems strange and new
The common sights transformed
With lengthy shadows, blue;
Awakening to a scene so dazzling bright
The land entrancing in its pristine white.
So, though there are some snags,
(Oil in my tank runs low)
I will resolve to appreciate the snow.
EASTER
by
Louisa Boughton
Creosote brings back vivid memories of Easter time when I was a child. There was the shed, the palings and the chicken house, all needing a coat of creosote and my dad at the ready. We were fascinated by the can of creosote and crowded round as the thick, dark, oily liquid, with fumes rising, was given a good stir. Golden bubbles formed on the surface, which popped when prodded with a stick. Mum said that we were to stay away from where Dad was painting as if it spurted onto our clothes it would never wash out. Always we got some brown dots on us and even the cat came in reeking of creosote!
Each year we picked primroses in the nearby wood to decorate the church. We loved the picking, putting our fingers deep down into the leaf mould to pick the stalks as long as possible. We tied each bunch carefully with wool and buried our noses in the delicate pale lemon cushions, each edged with leaves. The fragrance was very light, like no other, and special to us. We tied each bunch to a stick pulled from the hedge so as to be easy to carry them home.
Visitors came for Easter Sunday. They didn’t own a car but aunts and uncles hired a l
arge vehicle just for the day so that they could bring granny to see us. Lots of hugs and kisses and everyone saying how much we had grown. Easter Eggs for the children and boxes of chocolates changed hands amongst the adults. One year my sister was given Chocolate in the shape of an owl, and she would not eat the face. Chocolate does smell different to anything else, then and now.
I don’t remember any cold wet Easter Sundays as the sun was always shinning, the daffodils in bloom, and families together.
At Easter, years later and long-married, Roy and I had a daughter and small son. We decided to go camping near Saundersfoot in Wales, loaded the car with our tent and all the other equipment, and set off, just managing to get the tent up before the rain set in. Donning waterproofs and Wellingtons we went to the standpipe to fill the kettle and then to see what they had in the campsite shop. We stocked up on milk and bread - most other things we had with us.
It rained most of the holiday, although we did manage to look at the sea. We played “Lexicon” and ate the chocolate eggs we had taken with us. It was disappointing not to be in sunshine on the beach but it was better than being at work. Wet canvas and very wet grass was the smell we remembered most from that Easter. However we did have good camping holidays in that tent before we went up-market and bought a Dormobile.
THE WORD
by
Romayne Peters
Did it start as an idea
Then turn into a word?
The word that in the beginning
Was the Word?
And since then have we progressed?
Stringing words together,
Making sentences,
Writing Verse?
Even talking in tongues
Or worse?
Telling lies,
Making light of real love,
Its despair and its pain?
Aware of the constant
Which will always remain,
That everything‘s been said
So all is in vain.
See page upon page that soon spill into volumes
Endless shelves packed.
Saying more is mere repetition.
So, for what are we searching?
For what do we look?
It is there
The blank sheet before one,
That yet unwritten book.
SIX WOMEN - 1940
by
Wilma Hayes
I try to stop the rabbit pie from burning
But by the time he struggles home and darkness
Falls, it is all overdone. “I’m sorry, Love”
He says, “The trains were….” Then we hear the bombs.
He takes his tin hat down and then his gun.
My gentle husband, now a Home Guard fighter.
I thought we’d done our bit. My love, a fighter