Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

They sat around the table, poised, as if to see who was brave enough, who would take the first sip. Richard audibly swallowed, Gwendolynn coughed, Arthur flinched. There was an art in waiting and it seemed like they were all keen to be the victor of it. A chill wind blew through the ramparts and William shivered. He knew that he should be king by right and that none of these so-called contenders had any right to the throne, unlike him, the nephew of reigning monarch, Edward. Edward, who too, sat at the table, ailing fast, willing the victor to have courage and take a sip from the gold etched chalice in the centre of the table.   The chalice filled with wine so sweet that it made angels weep, or so Gwendolynn claimed, though William was certain it was poisoned. Edward was meant to have procured and poured the sweet wine himself into the vessel but as he was so ill, he entrusted Gwendolynn to perform the task, a task that she was happy to fulfill. “Now it is time,” Gwendo...

A young hunter ponders his future... Cracking, splitting - the shining ice retreating. Shrinking, stinking - our sacred lands are sinking. Rising, raging - storms through our shelters tearing. Raining, soaking - muddy mammoths’ legs are sticking. Warming, swarming - dark insect clouds are stinging. Hunting unrelenting - but the reindeer herds are leaving. Watching, waiting - our worried elders meeting. Dancing, praying - entreaties are not working. Fighting, killing – while our lands are disappearing. Starving, despairing – angry voices loud and wailing. Staying, or going? Some await a low-tide crossing. Following, I am leaving for green hills beyond our knowing. Sea area Dogger is named after Dogger Bank, a shallow fishing ground once visited by Dutch fishing boats called 'doggers'. During the last ice age Doggerland connected Britain to the rest of the European continent. As the ice melted the seas ...