Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Chattering birds in a cloudless sky. A whispering wind passes by. The turquoise sea shimmers below, as gentle waves endlessly flow.   The heat of the sun on a Summer’s day. Laughing children – happy at play. Hours to fill with fun and pleasure, Making memories to always treasure.   Fluttering leaves carpet the ground, constantly falling without a sound. Vibrant colours – brown, red, and gold, as Autumn arrives, proud and bold.   The moon casts a shadow on the earth below, now covered in a carpet of virgin snow. Icicles gather on windowpanes. Children sledge down slippery lanes.   Soon golden daffodils will dance and sway. A welcoming sight on a warm Spring day. Another season tells a different story, as nature’s revealed in all its glory.

  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...

  J22 Stiff scrubby stubble erupts Bristling below cornflower skies And piercing crumpled honey-dew blankets Which fall, billow and rise.   J23 Sludgy muddy Roman squalls Whip up waves which spit and lap. Western winds assail walls While crumbling concrete spans the gap.   J24 But my home is Victorian: Soot-settled, smooth and warm Black velvet, solid stone Soft to touch, seen-it-all.   J25 Soggy-sewage-winter leaves Cake crumpled steel skeletons And summer trout in Lincoln Green Brave the roaring river’s decibels.   J26 Shoppers and commuters congregate In this tight commuter belt. Commercial traffic coagulates In arteries caked in salt.

A riverside seat. Flask emptied, sandwiches finished, Eyes closed for an early afternoon snooze, Lulled by a Sibelius stream, Delivered by ear pods, Transporting me to Finnish lakes and forests. The sun warms my face, A breeze ruffles my hair, Total relaxation until … a sudden splash. Eyes open, the symphony stops. A dog paddles slowly down river, Its head just above the water, Tail rudder-like, Someone calling from a bridge in the distance, “That’s far enough Archie!” A natural symphony takes over, A blackbird in the blackthorn, Wind in the beech tops, Water rushing over smooth pebbles, swirling in eddies. A dipper doing what it says on the tin, The heron statuesque on the far bank. Eyelids start to droop again until, The sound of a tinkling bell. The line is taut! A catch? I grab the rod from its stand. Too late! Whatever was there … isn’t now. A whistling walker appears, all boots, rucksack and bonhomie. “How much have you got ...

You were a late comer, last year. Content with hibernating well into the warm days of Spring. When the sun beat fiercely down upon our shoulders. You were asleep, curled up, dormant.   The golden rays of Summer coaxed you into growth. The Sunflowers strong and cheerful, encouraged you to bloom. Shoots emerge, the sign of new beginnings. Followed by leaves of green, dappled in raindrops.   Your first buds appeared when the leaves began to burn and fall. Then you coloured our garden like jewels, flashing brightly. Rich reds, purples and deep pinks, Decorating our borders like couture gowns.   We cautiously waited, For the first nip in the air, The first ice on the wind, For we knew this late display was cursed.   In just one night, one fingertip of frost caused your retreat. Like an enchanted princess, now you wait, For the kiss and warmth of the sun, To awaken you once more.

 This may not be quite up to Keat's view of Autumn, but I hope it evokes a positive feeling as we head towards winter and whatever that may bring us.  “ It serves no useful purpose now,” he told them. “ Once it marked a boundary, built in local stone, the easiest to hand, stretching out across the land, showing how man divided up his world. But now, it serves no useful purpose.” Fallen into disrepair: decayed, dishevelled, ivy creeping over the coppice stones. And briars, bowed with luscious fruits bursting in the autumn sun, or ripped apart by urgent beaks. Blackbird whistles a warning to the world, alerting all, freezing the moment. Scarlet rose hips glisten, polished bags bulging,  spilling the last pieces onto the dark earth, and a mouse scurries to snatch the bounty into the safe haven of the crumbling courses. The people move on, picking their way over sharp, white stones fresh laid on the worn-out car park. They scurry to the tea ...

Spring. Days of gentle optimism unfurled and grew steadily longer.  Bright lime shoots pushed from the soil and nest builders, eager and bold, darted into hidden places, their beaks full of wriggling food.  The restless wren flew to her new orb of woven grasses, twigs and moss through a tiny door facing away from the chill wind that shook the dry clematis tangled over the arch. In May, bees rushed to the pendulous branches of the apple tree and swooped to trampoline inside the white blossom.  Fat, orange rosebuds swelled in the sun and pots squatted under the open kitchen window, full of crimson blooms like harlots’ petulant mouths. Propped flower spires reached into strangely quiet skies and netted fruit plumped and blushed as the earth grew warm.   Twelve weeks of waiting and watching as the sun climbed higher and the numbers started to fall.             We came up for air for a few rushed, summer weeks of partial respite b...

  Calls to act now Languish on deaf ears. Images of arboreal destruction, Melting ice-kingdoms And flooded plains Tell us we must do more. Earth weeps.   Champions of the future, Help those who come after us And show them we care. Nurture our precious planet. Go in search of new ways. Even now, there is time.   Ask yourself – what can I do, today? Climb out of your habits. Turn the tide.   Not on our watch Or our children’s, Will we let this continue.   An acrostic poem is one in which the first letter of each line spells out a message.            

  Below Mellbreak Sheep occupy old oak wood between farm, fell and water. They stare like guards, unsure if people are permitted. Marking boundaries with straggly tags of wool here on twigs, there on wire, they befuddle walkers, lay false trails by tramping back and forth through seasons of fallen leaves and rotting bark, leave hard bullets in every resting place to prove their ancient right.

As writers we are always being told to look for the ‘other story’, the ‘other’ point of view and sometimes that applies to real life too. During lockdown we’ve heard so much about Nature winning back access to nature reserves, parks and even cities. The National Trust properties have welcomed extra visitors in the form of peregrine falcons, stoats, weasels, lizards, little owls and hares. They’ve not paid much in entrance fees but have had online visitors entranced with their images. Less international trade has led to a reduction in marine traffic, giving space for dolphins to swim up the Bosphorus and do some site-seeing around Istanbul harbour. Seals not only sunbathe on the banks of the Thames, but hitch rides on the back of paddle boards, hauling themselves up and looking at the paddler as if to say “Why have you stopped?”. Wild boar have been trotting through the centre of Haifa in Israel and wild goats have acted up in the streets of Llandudno. Our roads...

Tall grasses glow in golden light Nodding their allegiance to the sun, A harmony of hues, brown sugar to pistachio Dancing together as one, Cheeks painted with soft breezes, Breath slows, heartbeat eases Overhead, the silent shadow of the last hunt Flickering feathers in perfect hover Below unseen, a field mouse freezes, then Makes a last-dash for cover ‘Too late’, I whisper and sigh Kez dives, slicing the sky Urgent bleating raises my gaze To the nursery on the hill Weary mothers scold scamps to come closer Still frolicking, despite the evening chill I stroll on, eyes drawn to the sinking light To secret stories of an early Summer’s night As I head further up, curious cows say 'Hello' Calves are skittish, mothers stood firm Or bowed, chewing sweet long grass The little ones look on and learn  I talk to them softly, not wanting to scare Yet the mothers still fix me, with a prote...

June is a poppy unfurling red sails into the sunshine, its black heart giving succour to the bees, shelter to its own new life within, ready for the future – a future it cannot understand. Uncertain, yet believing the poppy continues and thrives in the face of the unknown.

The ‘townies’ haven’t graced our garden for years, but now we’re faced with them. Maybe they left town in a swirling murmuration, rising and falling, twisting and calling, gradually leaving the flock to nest. Beige leaves from pampas grass gathered under the hedge. A starling lifts them into our airspace, under the eaves leaving long strands fluttering like streamers over the gutter. He worries a leaf, turns it into a coil that roils over his head, circles his body. Sun turns his chest purple and green like oil on water. White speckles on his wings, are like stars in a night sky. He tacks the lawn pushing his pointed beak into the grass. There has been a dry spell but an overnight downpour has softened baked earth and now he stabs his stiletto deeply into a yielding soil. Down the garden path a broken pale blue shell. This batch has ...

Fields of flowers, fields of corn,  A drop in the ocean before you were born.  Fields of barley, fields of wheat,  The chirping of crickets before we first meet.  Islands of paradise, islands of sand,  The whisper of warmth that I find in your hand.  Mountains of wonder, mountains we yearn,  The stone that we place on the top of the kern.  Forests of whispers, forests of want,  The wood that we stroke as we lie on the yacht.  Seas of beauty, seas of pain,  The boat that we sail through the plastic again.  Storms of fury, storms of rage,  The sadness we feel as we sit in our cage.  Fires that ravage, fires that wreck,  The anger we feel as we watch from the deck.  The graveyards of nature, the charred acorn,  We wonder and wish that we'd never been born.

Dream My bags are in that room and you are too. This corridor’s familiar, doors similar, but something’s not quite right. I turn left, climb stairs, turn right then right again, still room, bags, you are out of sight this roving raving, hunting, night that feels like day until I wake. When I do, perhaps, cloud curtains block the morning light. I’m cold, exhausted from a sheet-soaked night of searching for room, bags, you so close, I feel, but out of sight. You must be found. You must! Patiently then nervily then frantically I search. I know the room is there, there was no sleight. How come the building’s shifted style and my room is out of sight? I dream I wake. With heavy lids I see a shape, it might be you, or someone like, a misty silhouette in black and white until another turn or strife keeps you and everything that matters to me just out of sight. I’m stuck looking for a room that’s mine a love that’s mi...

Tomorrow, April 7 marks the birthday of William Wordsworth in 1770 – 250 years ago. I thought I would remember the event with a reminder of perhaps his most famous poem with a tongue in cheek “reply”.