Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I liked seeing the fluttering bird with a long pointy tail Bobbing up and down With a bright yellow body that shines In the reflection in the water. And the black, wiggly tadpoles with writhing tails Weaving in the cold, transparent, damp stream. I liked seeing the peregrines that soared through the air Diving to catch small creatures. And the goosander sitting on a cream rock with a red spiky head And a long, red, pointy beak. I liked the lime stone pavement with little gaps in the rocks And I fell down one too. The bright green ferns gleam in the sunlight above. I loved hearing the sparrows who chirped me to sleep.

Ever look back and wonder where it all went wrong?   Well this time, it all started, with me Mum’s white coat.   She’d had it for years.   Immaculately clean, she wore it everywhere.   She looked smart in it.   At the school gates.   In the park.   At the shops.   It was modern enough too.   Like with all her sleeves and pockets, she could always produce a tissue from it, to deal with the blood, snot, chocolate or tears, as required.   That was until she finally washed away a pocket.   She’d forget that all was left of it, were silky nylon strands, until one day she put her hand straight through it and shed tissues everywhere. She took it to the Friday night jumble sale, to raise money for my brother’s school.   I said, “You can’t give them that, with the hole in the pocket.” “Why not?   Someone else less fortunate might want it.” I felt sick, as I watched from the sidelines.   Mum’s white coat lay on the surface of the huge pile of clothes, like a beached whale.