Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Climbing the pull-down ladder into the attic again and again, dragging up with me a table top, its legs, a rug, lamps, a chair, and more with each trip.           (How I ’ve longed for such a chance, time and again spaces I’ve had           were overtaken by family demands)   The floor is now swept, Velux wide open, the sounds of an early summer morning deliciously wafting into the space.           (I don ’t even mind the sneezes the sweeping created, each tickle is            worth it)   Dust motes spiral in the faint breeze, highlighted by rays of sunlight.           (I wish I could capture the dust in a painting - it feels like MY dust up         here in the silence)   Artists’ sketchbooks, paints, pencils, masking tape…the trappings of a developing artist, desperate for a tiny corner in which to create.           (Hope is beginning to grow that I can be a ‘real’ artist at last)   This little space, crammed though it is amongst boxes and bags, Christm

  Time Not On My Side Precious days, months, years erode and nibble time away all too fast, casting memories aside to lie in fragments deep in my brain gradually fading away. Time On My Side Now in my seventh decade those fragments have awoken when I assumed they were gone. the arguments we had, silly jokes I told, me winning at scrabble (every time) well dancing, singing, working; tiny details of our life spewing forth in clear view and I remember us as we were. I still don’t know where the car is, I still can’t find the house keys. I’m sure, if you were here, you would know but time wasn’t on your side. © Christopher Lloyd Memories …… afterwards we didn’t meet again though I still dream of you, remember every inch of you, revel at your energy and zest, the way we were as one the iron bond we shared life partners, no one else mattered now simply one only dreams, memories of our days walking, chasing sticks but mistily, my eyes can see you