Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Tall grasses glow in golden light Nodding their allegiance to the sun, A harmony of hues, brown sugar to pistachio Dancing together as one, Cheeks painted with soft breezes, Breath slows, heartbeat eases Overhead, the silent shadow of the last hunt Flickering feathers in perfect hover Below unseen, a field mouse freezes, then Makes a last-dash for cover ‘Too late’, I whisper and sigh Kez dives, slicing the sky Urgent bleating raises my gaze To the nursery on the hill Weary mothers scold scamps to come closer Still frolicking, despite the evening chill I stroll on, eyes drawn to the sinking light To secret stories of an early Summer’s night As I head further up, curious cows say 'Hello' Calves are skittish, mothers stood firm Or bowed, chewing sweet long grass The little ones look on and learn  I talk to them softly, not wanting to scare Yet the mothers still fix me, with a prote

It was a still day, but oh so hot. The heat was so fierce it made the air shimmer like water. A heat haze, is what Mother Superior would call it, I suppose. On days like these, there is nothing you want to do more than shelter indoors or under the giant oak at the bottom of the field, but we could not, for it was harvest time and there was work to be done. There was always work to be done, but as novitiates, we could not complain, for it was God's work, honest and pure and he would be grateful for our contribution. The whole acreage has to be hand scythed by the end of the week. Storms may arrive, the heat was certainly an indicator of that, so with limited time left, we had to begin. The days were long, we woke at four, said our prayers, then got to work. Sister Agatha fainted in the field yesterday and had to be carried in by Jeb, one of the farmhands who helped us with the bales. It was a blessing that she was unaware of this, as she was always preaching about guardin

8.30 on Sunday morning, the house is almost silent; just the odd creak of it settling, getting comfortable in the early morning sunshine. Hubby’s gone for a motorbike ride, grown-up playing out with his childhood friend, and the children aren’t up yet. I’m writing in my front room, the window’s open behind me and the world’s waking up.  There’s birdsong, the voice of a neighbour talking to his wife, a car faintly in the distance. I can still taste the luscious toasted fruit bread I’ve just eaten, and the faint breeze through the window is sending little wafts of my mint tea in my direction. Our cat pops through the window, prowling and purring across the back of the sofa behind my head, her tail tickling my neck.  She slinks around the room, winding her way around chair legs before settling down, Sphinx-like, right in the middle of the room.  Why that particular spot? She often looks up at the ceiling from that viewpoint: is she simply hearing the children stirring, or is the

The man from the house clearance company offered a price for the lot.  I’d stayed in the kitchen, trying to shut out the sound of doors closing, drawers opening, the creak of floorboards. Perhaps his offer of a tenner for the case was a sop to soften the impact of the deal he'd suggested.      There were two small, brown cases but that was until the holiday to Franco’s Spain in 1966 when one was lost to the Spanish baggage handlers.  I remembered my father’s anger at the thieves who, according to him, were out of the same mould of pickpockets and criminals as the nation’s leader.  ‘I lost two brand new corsets and a crimplene dress in that case’ my mother had added every time the loss was raised - usually when striking baggage handlers were in the news.  They didn’t go overseas again after that.  ‘We like it at Brid’ she had replied whenever there was talk of a holiday abroad. I opened the wardrobe door and it was still there, its sturdy leather corners neatly crafted to