Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The old black money maker threaded with cotton Ready to use pink thread from the bobbin Soft fabric pieces all neatly cut Her work today has already begun.   Pads attached on feet, sew up the tum Two cleverly shaped ears already sewn Protruding snout with contrast stitch Bright satin bow round the neck to finish.   Another fluffy bear, a brand new teddy To join the others, there are so many Awaiting their fate to be sold on. To parents for children on Christmas morn.   Now that job is done, time to move on Re-spool and thread a new shade of cotton. Ready to alter, repair garments people have brought A zip to replace, a dress to make short.   A knock on the door brings more work to do Mum says “come in I’ll measure you” A bridesmaid dress is the latest request So busy a life for a home seamstress.

  ‘You caught me napping. Yes, this is my corner. Bin my favourite spot for years. It’s in the sun, see. Wall gets warm and I like that heat on my back. Not as supple as I used to be. Round here, they knows it’s my space, so I gets left alone. Sometimes some young, smart-arsed tom thinks he’ll push me around but they only do it once. Life in the old fella yet! She lives here; Violet. The cat lady they calls her, those neighbours with their tattoos and piercings and walnut whips like remould tyres. Their kids shout out at her. Caught one yesterday throwing bird seed. I spat at the little wretch and it frightened her enough for her to go crying to her ma. I saw them pointing in my direction but I hoofed it before they could do anything else to annoy me. Of course, if Ronnie’d bin here we’d ha sorted ‘em all out. No one f***s with us. But he’s bin gone years. We was like twins. We didn’t start fights, we finished them. Some said we was ugly but Violet never said that. Course, ...

I dive deep into the still, dark pool within. Deep enough that I wonder how long I can stay here in the depths, until I am drowned under the weight of the waters above. Deeper yet still, the answers I seek shoal, spook, and dive— elusive, quick‑silver flashes that, seen and then unseen, are ever out of grasp.

  Friday   Tabitha closed the portal and sighed. Eloise uncovered the mirror and went back to sucking on the chain of her ankh necklace. Drusilla stepped forward from the opposite end of the room to scrub away the chalk lines.             “I’m so done with this week,” Tabitha announced, wiping the blood from her nostril.             “How much longer can we keep this up?” Eloise asked. “I mean, spell quotas? They’re driving this coven into the ground.”             “It’s a shit show,” Drusilla replied, rising from her knees, “which is why I’ve done something. For us.”             Tabitha and Eloise frowned at her.             Drusilla grinned. “I booked a place in the countryside. For the weeken...

    ‘Oranges and lemons’ said the bells of St Clements, Rung out, in tones as regular and strident As does my humdrum shopping list. In fact, I have to be quite honest My lack of cooking skills are to blame. Each week, it seems I buy the same: Campbell’s condensed chicken soup Then down on tins of beans I swoop, Fresh fish and bacon, cheese and butter Look at my list, which brings a mutter, Run back up the aisles to jams and honey Then check my purse, I’ve got the money, Something special now for Sunday tea: But what are kumquats, dragon fruit, lychee? From fruit I pass the stacks of melons And end up buying - oranges and lemons.

No chance to grow, be cherished and loved My precious baby boy. Leaving behind just heartache and pain When there should have been such joy. I’ll never forget your tiny face The picture’s engraved on my heart. I held you tightly in my arms Knowing we soon would part. As time moves on, the pain subsides Yet the memories are bright and clear. Rest in peace my little one There’s nothing for you to fear.