Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Lightning strikes the maidenhair tree Sizzling electricity arcs To dried out branches, now fully ablaze, Falling to earth in a pile of sparks.   The smouldering embers deep in the forest Sink beneath the earth’s floor. They flow like a river seeking its source, Bathing the rocks and releasing the ore.   The ore is now found, it is worked, it is wrought By hands of men tilling the earth. The metal is forged and formed and bent - A cup, a jug, man knows its worth.   A maidenhair sapling grows alone, by the house All tidy and trimmed, but dying of thirst. A girl brings a jug made of ore from the ash. She’s thirsty as well, but the tree must come first.   The tree’s now much taller, no longer alone, The forest’s not silent, sounds rending the air. Men still do their digging, they burn, and they drill, But they’re also, finally, learning to share.   The elements weave an ancient design, Together, apart, rebir...

    I deal in words , the flutter of notes High pitched, low drawl, hand-written scrawl Connection exchanged   I credit in words , the currency rich A Thank You, A Bless You! Compliments paid   I withdraw in words , sometimes miserly Few spoken, broken   Words fail   I spend in words , sometimes too much Rushing, gushing instead of shushing Listen carefully   I tip in words , a cheque to help Suggestions, recommendations, Selling belief   I save in words, precious treasure Nurture until ready, steady Go   I bank on words, to tell the truth Stand up, voice up To be heard

Let me tell you a tale of the Shadow Wood A place of darkness, misunderstood Legends, Myths and Stories told Keep away all but the bold A girl sat shaded by an ancient oak Enveloped by it’s dappled cloak But as she leaned into that trunk From within came a deep… dark… thunk She waited till the night drew near With strangely not an ounce of fear The wood stood silent as the grave No signs of life at all it gave No animal or bird or sound Naught but silence all around Nothing moved, the air was still Just a sudden deathly chill As darkness fell, another sound And warm light spilled across the ground Her shadows shifted as she stood And turned to face the Shadow Wood Oh foolish child can you not see The danger of that ancient tree From deep within a golden glow Spread through its roots an eerie show Dancing shadows light and dark Shifting shapes on roots and bark A silent carnival gold and black The girl reached out but the roots… reached… back Shrouded in their warm embrace Tendrils gen...

I am in southern France, relaxing on a balcony, skin yielding to the warmth of the sun. Spreading oozing Camembert onto fresh, crusty still-warm bread. Biting into a luscious, ripe tomato, smiling as the juice runs down my chin. A slightly chilled glass of rosé is waiting to be relished.   Sounds of distant voices, conversing harmoniously. Far enough away not to disturb the tranquillity but drifting near enough to soothe, offering the contentment of community.   My body sits in my Yorkshire garden but my mind has flown to France. And that will suffice. For now. But the time will come.     This poem is exactly 100 words long, excluding the title. It was written in response to the Captain Tom 100 Challenge, set by his family on what would have been his 101st birthday recently. It is published for 17 May, upon the further easing of lockdown measures in England.   

My granddaughter proudly told me that she has already gone up into Year Two, even though it is the summer holidays. They manage transitions very well at her school, preparing the youngsters for the next stage in their learning. She was surprised when I told her that I wouldn't see her the next week because I was going to a writers' summer school, but quickly accepted that even granddads still have a need for schooling. Often I play stupid so that she can tell me things, but probably she thinks I am stupid. I certainly do have a lot to learn. The Swanwick Writers' Summer School has now completed its sixty-eighth year, a week of workshops, courses, speakers, and social events and I am back home catching up on sleep and Olympics. There is no better way of adding to whatever writing skills you may already have. It is by turns entertaining, exhausting, enlivening. This year I focused on poetry workshops, but there are always a variety of courses in writing novels, non-fiction,...

It’s October already, and we are well into the new school term. At just nine and seven, the boys are already bringing home their fair share of homework, and like all children, there is always something they would rather be doing. It’s my job, then, to inspire them to do it. Not an easy task. This week, William brought home a poem with some questions to complete. The poem was a good one, (“Old Flyer” by Nick Toczek– look it up), but William was not enthused. Something about the arrangement of the words on the page, the stanzas, the rhyming, seemed to intimidate him, which manifested itself in sullen uncooperativeness and mutterings about it being a “stupid poem”.  To coax him along I suggested he look at one of the easier questions, about identifying similes.  This prompted an argument about whether a simile can include “than,” as well as “like” and “as”. Here, my English Literature Masters Degree cut no ice with William, and he was only persuaded when we c...