Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

War A skein of geese flies silently, majestically in the red glow of evening, their v shape in unison, like a squadron of war planes performing at an air show … Below, the smouldering of jagged buildings fills the air with acrid smells of twisted metal, burning people, long dead,  gaping mouths, sightless eyes. Dogs hungrily investigate, choose from a menu. Harsh wind skitters newspapers across the square, give some semblance of privacy to bodies as they are unknowingly covered. A defeated, bedraggled soldier walks past unseeing lost in his own thoughts, gripping a photograph, town raped, razed to the ground plundered, murdered left to rot. The red sky in this particular frame is not made by mother nature for it will still be there for days as the ceaseless roar continues to wreak its havoc, death and destruction. Horrific scenes of war play out daily, globally ghastly, unthinkable to any right-minded human. The rest of us should remember how lucky we are. Give thanks in y

  Jen is a lion tamer, Or to be more accurate, she used to be. Or to be even more accurate she was a lion whisperer. No need for compulsion with Jen. She’d talk them into doing the necessary, Like roar, or jump onto a lion-stand (or whatever they’re called). The circusgoers loved it and called out for more. Jen did it for years, until one of the lions whispered back And told her they weren’t right keen on this performing lark and how about getting back to their homeland? She packed it all in the next day and went on safari with the lions, Back to their homeland.   Reg is a scrap merchant, Or to be more accurate, he’s now a materials recycler. No greenwashing for him, He does it all by the green book. His yard is too big to be called a yard. He calls it his operational zone. Likes his words, does Reg. Big heaps of ferrous metal And one of them magnet things, To attract the genuine article. Lots of non-ferrous as well, An equal opportunities

My beautiful beech tree, above us it towers, A constant shelter from those April showers. Tall, majestic, standing proud, A leafy protection beneath its shroud. Offering shade on a hot summer day, For family picnics and children at play. Warm sunny evenings drift into night, Calm and still beneath the moonlight.   Memories of Autumn I no longer treasure, Gathering leaves is a toil of a pleasure. Fluttering and falling without a sound, A vibrant carpet soon covers the ground. Crisp and crackling beneath our tree, Its branches stripped bare for all to see. Gnarled and twisted – reaching high, Towards a bleak and wintry sky.   A robin hops by, alone and bold, A solitary snowman stands frozen and cold. Fingers of frost stretch and crawl, Dancing snowflakes, how quickly they fall, Covering the earth now virgin white, Storm clouds gather as day turns to night. There’s no shelter now from the wind and rain, As the journey begins all over again

A Single Sparkler Expecting fireworks? They're stuck in a bucket.   Awaiting sunshine? There's drizzle expected.   Hoping for magic? Then don't look too closely.   The light show of my love is a single sparkler but watch it's trails as it's getting darker. It's worth the wait. A Late Bonfire He starts his bonfire after the night in the confines of his empty drive. He lays out logs and sets them alight and dark smoke climbs well before five.   He throws broken bricks onto this pyre, then twisted scrap metal and acrid acrylic. Old building material burns in his fire and chokes out the neighbours soon after six.   The last thing he chucks onto this blaze is a letter marked ‘official – cease and desist’. It flickers and blackens in illicit malaise but soon becomes ash and easily dismissed.

  It was many years since I had visited the ancient Pilgrim City. I was in the shadows of the great Cathedral where merchants and street vendors competed for attention with their cacophony of ringing voices and shrill cries. Shoppers nudged together to reach for vegetables and fruit set out on hawkers’ barrows.  Further on, under the painted sign of a black cow, a butcher stood with his cleaver aloft, a blood-spattered apron tied around his large belly. Next door, a sign above the fishmonger’s, showed a vivid, aquamarine sea and its harvest of orange crabs, silver-scaled fish and oysters: a picture far removed from my memories of the drab, grey, shifting sands and sea of the Kent coastline. My eyes fell from the sign to the queue at the fish counter and that was when I saw him. A long, thin man, his knees slightly bent as if in the act of supplication. As I stared at him, I saw him stretch out a lank hand with thin, pale fingers that closed around the parcel of wet fish he had purchase

  The Brits.. …. are coming, and they’ll talk a lot of tosh they’ll talk of visions and plans but they ain’t got any dosh the only way that they could think to help us is by sending a worn-out double decker bus they can’t afford to send smart bombs or many fancy tanks so for those particular items you need to ask the Yanks plus you’ll need to call ‘em between eleven and noon as they’ll be in “meetings” every afternoon they’ll try to cosy up with real world leaders but they’re seen as a country of pleaders and they firmly believe in getting paid lots of cash by talking very posh and selling oil and gas and as any struggling person knows they seem to enjoy cutting energy, especially when it snows we are all members of that former exalted clan but we are tired, pissed off and in need of a viable plan no more corrupt cops or MP’s abusing rules and watching porn they should fully expect to be jailed and made to face our scorn but no, they smile smugly in their

I had this girlfriend once, called Sally; she wanted to go to the theatre. It was to see a sort of Romeo and Juliette thing but with a happy ending, she said. La Nonnay Sanglantay, it was called. Translates apparently as Bloody Nun, and it was – bloody nunsense. There’s these star crossed lovers, Rudolpho (not Romeo) and Agnes. The families are at loggerheads, so to keep the peace, she’s being forced to marry Rudolpho’s older brother. She runs away by disguising herself as the ghost of the nun that’s supposed to haunt the castle. Rudi trots along to the rendezvous they’d arranged earlier, sees the ghost, thinks it’s Agnes, and marries it, witnessed, as he would be, by all his ancestors - who are also ghosts. Then he finds out it’s not Agnes. You’d have thought he’d have checked what was under the veil, wouldn’t you? Anyway, the ghost won’t let him go unless he kills the man who murdered her – I hope you’re following this, ‘cos I couldn’t until Sally explained it at the inte

  Cinnamon and ginger in your favourite coffee shop, Crisply ironed shirts and the smell of polished shoes, Fragrant fallen leaves upon the gently warming soil, And frost assaults your nose in riotous shades of blue.   Richly scented candles and firelighters in the stove, Soups and stews and comfort foods simmering on the hob, The smell of car exhausts that lingers in the air, The odour of new notebooks you’ve bought for your new job.   The smell of the lawn’s last haircut before it goes to sleep, The final hurrah of flowers, including the wild roses. Polish on kitchen table, and oil on oak worktops Filling the hungry wood and filling up our noses.   Fragrant cocoa replaces tea as my supper drink of choice, Hot water bottle smells upstairs before we go to bed. Smelly umbrellas and wellies herald wetter days this month, And the spicy tang of Vapour Rub to clear my stuffy head.   Fragrant sun-warmed fruit brings thoughts of apples crumble, Whilst

  (Memorial to Commonwealth servicemen killed during the Battles of the Aisne and Marne in 1918 who have no known grave. Soissons, France). She would have known. She was his mother. She would have felt his pain. Her mind held on to an image she had conjured of him. Dazed, lost, left by someone in a cottage or a farmhouse away from the guns. Foreign voices whispering questions he didn’t understand, unable to remember his name or where he was. Armed with the weapon of denial, she fought off despair and the lure of mourning. Weeks later, she saw him. Standing at the sink, she looked towards the gently rising Pennine hills and fields crossed by snaking stonewalls. He was there, at the bottom of the garden by the wall, his back towards her. When the sunlight caught the tips of his ears, she cried out and lifted her hand to knock at the window but the sun faltered and his image dissolved, extinguished by the late summer light. She turned to see if he had come into the kitchen. Wiping h

  A cold east wind, whistles and blows. It’s a wild and stormy night. I’m just about to fall asleep, when on comes the security light.   I’m not sure it was such a bargain - even though it was less than half price. It seems to shine at any old time, not so good for a brand-new device.   I climb out of bed. It’s freezing cold, and I peer through my windowpane. My eyes adjust to the darkness outside, ‘cos the light’s gone off again.   A lonesome fox swaggers by, eyes bright as it stares ahead. The security light should be on – but it isn’t, so I’ll go back to bed.   I twist and turn beneath the duvet, trapped in an endless dream. Then the light shines brightly yet again, and I’m caught in its eerie beam.   I don’t look out, though I sense someone close, voices are calling my name. Shadows are spreading across my room. Fingers scraping my windowpane.   I’m shocked and scared as I try to hide, my bedroom’s in darkness once more,

  “For Sale: baby bootees, never worn” Attributed to Ernest Hemingway, this ‘short story’ in six words always brings a sigh of sadness as we think of the poor parents who have lost a baby. But is this actually what it’s all about? Since the story is so vague, there are lots of other interpretations. Imagine two sets of grandparents, each determined to outdo the other. Each buy baby bootees. One chooses blue, the other chooses pink. Baby finally arrives and is … well, you can see what might happen. ‘ No, Douglas, we must be first with the bootees.’ ‘ But why pink ones, Mary? What if it’s –’ ‘ Our Sally is craving sweet things all the time and she’s carrying high. It will be a girl.’ ‘ Tom’s mother thinks –’ ‘ She has no idea what she’s talking about. She only has one child. I have had three! We will have a grandaughter, there’s no doubt about that.’ And so the bootees have to go, before Sally, Tom – and worst of all, his parents – find out the col

  (Part 1 was on the Blog on the 10 th April)    I wait a while and press the apartment bell again. The street is very quiet, apart from a man walking slowly along the opposite pavement, singing a Richard Anthony song, loudly and badly. How come I can remember the song, but not my own name? The door opens. A tall, slim woman stands there, long hair, long dress, long fingernails. A small tattoo on a bare forearm. It must be Simone, but the memory is hazy. She reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. Not on the lips. What does that mean?     “You don’t look good Liam! Where have you been?” Liam! That’s good to know. She makes no move to invite me inside. No lip-kissing, no invitation. There’s a message here.     “I got lost and ended up sleeping at the bus station,” I lie. “I have your key and wanted to bring it back … and to see you, naturally.” I’m struggling to talk in sentences. “Could I perhaps come in?”     “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m expecting The B