Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Some people pretend the years have stood still, others are happy to celebrate the milestones gratefully passed. Lis chose to celebrate. I wrote this poem for my friend aged sixty. SIX TREES Walking through a woodland maze, I see you A sapling bending freely with the breeze. Slender limbs reach for blue skies, Your roots seek hidden seas. Beside a chattering stream, I see you A willow dressed in flowing green. Moved to song by sparkling water, You harmonise its diamond dreams. In summer’s hazy meadow, I see you A chestnut, branches draped in home grown cloth. Children, grass, and flowers, play around you Comforted by a show of permanence. On a rock-strewn hillside, I see you Battling rowan, strong against the storm. Standing separate, but not alone Red berries decorate your crown. Guarded by tall pines, I see you Red sycamore clothed in autumn leaves. Your seeds, a twirling party of flight, Send kindly signals across the lan

It’s busy. Crowds of people mill about, some purposeful, others standing in groups, deep in conversation. The natives are dressed in dark warm clothes, the odd tourist standing out like a sore thumb in brightly coloured t-shirt, shorts and sandals. Seagulls shriek impatiently overhead. Small trestle tables line up along each side of the jetty, some shaded from the sun with striped umbrellas. Against the seaward side, fishing boats bob and rock in gentle rhythm, resting after a long night’s toil. For the fishermen, there’s still work to be done. They are here to sell. Each has laid out his stall with his catch and there’s a huge variety on display.  Some major in shellfish, piles of blue-black cozze , delicate pale grey vongole and the Sicilian speciality, gamberi rosso, vermillion and translucent. Others have landed multitudes of small silver fish, slender sarde , metallic orato , curled into stiff bracelets, and slivers of acciughe , all ripe for dishes of frito mist

I’m a bit of both... I remember in my first weeks at university, one of my tutors laughing at those of us who still handwrote their work before word processing it.  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be putting it straight onto the computer by the end of the term.’  She was right.  It was great for academic work.  It saved me lots of precious time before deadlines with its nifty shortcuts and made navigating around longer pieces of work simpler.   Ever since then, when I work straight onto a computer, I edit on the spot a lot more than when I handwrite.  I have to remember to take my editing hat off otherwise I don’t finish a sentence without trying out all of its other permutations.  The writing and editing stages tangle themselves together.  I think it’s because typing straight onto the computer feels like more of a commitment.  It’s one step closer to having an audience and it looks like it will look in a reader’s hands.  I find this useful for writing poems sometimes.  The layout of a poe

I wake up on Tuesdays and for a split second I have to remind myself what day it is, as I do every morning.   But on Tuesdays I lie in bed and grin broadly.   I feel my heart skip with excitement.  It's Tuesday, or as I like to call it, ‘ Choose Day’ .   Tuesdays are my day when I do exactly as I choose.   Once the children are deposited at school, I drive to my creative writing class which lasts from 10 am until midday.    I then walk to a café where I join the other members of the Writer's Lunch.  We spend for a couple of hours sharing our latest work and talking about writing and then it's time to drive home to pick up the children. I work part-time as a supply teacher and I had got into the habit of taking an afternoon’s work on a Tuesday sometimes, but I recently decided that it was time to protect this day.   For the rest of the week, any time for writing is squeezed in between working, looking after my children, cooking, cleaning and the general demands of