Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  My reflection gazes back A face I hardly recognise Pale grey skin, almost transparent Dull and lifeless eyes brimming with unshed tears, staring at nothing Just waiting – waiting.   No need to turn, I know it’s time I sense his presence, feel him near His breath is warm against my cheek A sweet caress which holds no fear.   I feel the pain of tearing flesh Of crimson life blood flowing free My image fades before my eyes And then there’s nothing more to see.

Once, there was no ‘us’, just ‘I’. Proud monolith, I bestrode the land, commanded it, immune and constant for all time, I thought. That was hubris: no other mountain challenged me, but subtler forces were at work. Wind wore me down with jagged fragments of myself; water sank deep fingers in my flesh that froze and fractured me. Soft snow, seeming so gentle, built a second mountain on my back to grind my bones. When that at last was melted, we were no longer one but many; bright streams raced to carry us away. A stump remains, though not for long: nature still harries it; men bore and burrow for the silver in its veins. We that are gone no longer feel a kinship with it. We have embraced our journey, come to love the cold caress of water, our slow dance of descent towards the sea. Division, we have learned, is not defeat, and change is not surrender. Beneath the sea, we know, is stillness: as we gather there, we shall know peace. And with peace, in time, will come rejoining: many s...

  A body is stretched out on the threadbare carpet. A nearby coffee mug, tipped on its side, has dribbled out an artistic brown stain. The front window blind is tight-closed, refusing to let in any bit of a pale morning light. A pair of candles in ornate wooden holders, have burnt down almost to nothing. Evidence of another power cut. The walls and ceiling are covered in rough woodchip wallpaper. Two pendant lights, housed in large paper lanterns, hang down in the middle of the room. The radio on the top shelf of the bookcase is playing uncomplicated classical music to itself. There’s movement on the floor. A leg stretches, a groan, a hand moves to the forehead. John Star wakes gradually, every limb stiff after a night of broken sleep on the floor. He thinks back. That punk band in the Rocket . They were good. But he can’t remember what they were called. Maybe he should start drinking less. A small alarm clock, dangerously close to his ear, bursts into life and his left-h...