Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

War A skein of geese flies silently, majestically in the red glow of evening, their v shape in unison, like a squadron of war planes performing at an air show … Below, the smouldering of jagged buildings fills the air with acrid smells of twisted metal, burning people, long dead,  gaping mouths, sightless eyes. Dogs hungrily investigate, choose from a menu. Harsh wind skitters newspapers across the square, give some semblance of privacy to bodies as they are unknowingly covered. A defeated, bedraggled soldier walks past unseeing lost in his own thoughts, gripping a photograph, town raped, razed to the ground plundered, murdered left to rot. The red sky in this particular frame is not made by mother nature for it will still be there for days as the ceaseless roar continues to wreak its havoc, death and destruction. Horrific scenes of war play out daily, globally ghastly, unthinkable to any right-minded human. The rest of us should remember how lucky we are. Give thanks ...

I take a deep breath The air is fresh, clean and pure Free from pollution.   I’ve waited so long To leave the city behind The noise and chaos.   Alone with my thoughts Cushioned by nature’s beauty I now feel at peace.

Life is far too short Days, weeks, months pass quickly by Time will never wait.   Forlorn and unkempt The flowers wither and die Are you still alone?   Can you sense me near? Where’s your final resting place? I cannot find you.

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 ...

As we turn away from the old year and look to a new one in the hope that our lives will be happier, I thought that it might be timely to give this week’s blog over to the Dalai Lama and his Instructions for Life.  I wish you all a very safe, healthy and happy 2021. INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFE by the Dalai Lama 1.         Take into account that great love and great achievement involve great risk 2.         Follow the three R’s.   Respect for self; Respect for others; Responsibility for your actions 3.         Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck 4.         Don’t let a little dispute injure a great friendship 5.         When you realise you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it 6.         Spend some time alone every day 7.         Open your arms to change but don’t let go o...

8.30 on Sunday morning, the house is almost silent; just the odd creak of it settling, getting comfortable in the early morning sunshine. Hubby’s gone for a motorbike ride, grown-up playing out with his childhood friend, and the children aren’t up yet. I’m writing in my front room, the window’s open behind me and the world’s waking up.  There’s birdsong, the voice of a neighbour talking to his wife, a car faintly in the distance. I can still taste the luscious toasted fruit bread I’ve just eaten, and the faint breeze through the window is sending little wafts of my mint tea in my direction. Our cat pops through the window, prowling and purring across the back of the sofa behind my head, her tail tickling my neck.  She slinks around the room, winding her way around chair legs before settling down, Sphinx-like, right in the middle of the room.  Why that particular spot? She often looks up at the ceiling from that viewpoint: is she simply hearing the children stirr...