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