Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Bend for the mixing bowl patterned like our mothers’. Fetch the wooden spoon darkened by a thousand dhals. Slide bees-work into water, add yeast and watch a muddy puddle spring to life. Keep warm. Wait. Wash hands, splash face, brush teeth. Add fragrant flour gifted by the summer sun and salt from the earth and sea. Beat, beat, beat the batter Til your arm says ‘no more’. First rising. Slow movement, stretch, balance. Add more flour for a sticky, glutinous gloop. Push, fold, push, fold. until the dough submits. Place a damp towel on its swelling crown. Second rising. Up the hill through autumn leaves and mist. Oil tins, light oven form a trinity of loaves smooth, round and sensuous ready for the fire. Third rising. Let thoughts arise. Put the pieces in the kiln. Set the timer, let the fire do its work. Meditate, dog curled tired at your feet. When the loaves sound like drums, and smell of heaven, turn out ...

November Rain Umbrella, closed, in hand, I stood in the therapy of November rain, It pierced my repentant skin with devil's nails, And rinsed the lines from my crumpled heart. The circles of solitude spun in deep puddles, Each drop suspended, untimely, before the fall, It ran rings of memory around my past, And quenched the thirst of my present anguish. I felt alone on that spot, Looked up at the black star filled sky, Into the shower of darting lights, Cascades closed the doors of my eyes. When the emptiness was all washed out, I shook the tears from my dripping hair, And, smiling, with umbrella up, Turned my back, forever, on that spot .... and walked home. by Annabel Howarth

the     needles             click,                  the                      ball                         jumps,                          the thread slips                            through my fingers.                           stitch after stitch, loop joining loop,                            entwining to form rows, those rows                           lining up, taking shape, becoming material.          ...

The end of September. My birthday in a week. The sun’s shining through the window. It’s Saturday morning and no school. I dress quickly. My vest, shirt and jumper are all still slotted inside each other from last night, so it makes things even quicker. A brief stop in the bathroom and down for breakfast. Mum and Dad are already in the kitchen and there are fry-ups on the go. As usual my brother’s nowhere to be seen. Two eggs, two rashers, sausage and beans followed by tea and toast. Dad’s on the phone to the chimney sweep, fixing for him to come next week. The sweep’s a small man with a big moustache and a bald head, although he wears a cap nearly all the time. He must wash but maybe it’s difficult for him to get the soot out of his skin. He works slowly. He told me last year he likes to do everything by the book. I don’t suppose I’ll see him this year. No school holidays next week. As I clear the table, I hear this strange noise coming from the chimney, a bit like a ch...

I have always wanted to be a time traveller.    To fly backwards across the centuries and peep into the lives of ordinary and extraordinary people.    To eavesdrop on their conversations, to touch their clothes, their lives.    To see through their eyes. I would first go for afternoon tea with Charles II.    I know that afternoon tea hadn’t been invented then, but hey, I’m making the rules in this journey of journeys.    I want to see for myself if he’s as charming, suave, intelligent and witty as history reports. I would peer into The Tower, where the princes are sleeping and wait to see who comes to take their lives, asking at whose bidding they come.    Time travellers cannot change the past, much as I would want to save those little boys. I would gaze into the fire with stone age men and women, so I could return to my junior school and bring history projects to life with sights, sounds, smells and fir...