Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

In this place was a lake, where the rivers once came with the soil they had scoured from the mountains above. Here they joined, became still and relinquished their load, so their brown, rushing water became blue and clear and the pine trees grew tall by the wave-caressed shore.   Over time, those same rivers, the rain and the ice ground the mountains to hills and the hills into plains and the water was filled with the dust of their bones. Then the trees and the rivers all faded away as the lake became mud, and the mud became stone.   Underneath, the old earth gave a shrug in her sleep. The plain was now folded and thrust to the sky and the sandstone laid down in the lake that had died, made from dust of forgotten hills long worn away would be moulded like clay into peaks of its own.   And of course, there is rain, there is ice, there is snow and the flesh of the mountain is bitten once more by the streams that emerge, like the sweat...

  Time moves slowly – tick tick tock Staring at that hospital clock.   The days are long and endlessly boring The nights even worse, ‘cos everyone’s snoring. It’s supposed to be a restful place But the level of noise is an utter disgrace. Nurses talking all night long And soon the dawn chorus will break into song.   6 am – night staff still chattering 8 am – breakfast trolley comes clattering. Blood pressure, temperature readings again Followed by tablets to mask the pain.   The new admission has never stopped talking I’ll try and escape, but it’s so hard walking. I suppose I could hobble across to the loo. I don’t really want to, but it’s something to do. Better not fall whilst dragging my drip Last thing I need is a broken hip.   Back watching the clock – soon be visiting time A little nap, and I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s 8 pm – I’ve slept too long Just been informs my visitor’s gone. Another long night now l...