Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Codewords. You might have seen these puzzles in the newspaper. You might be a fan. A crossword grid … but no clues. All the white squares are numbered. Each of the numbers, 1 to 26, stands for one of the letters in the alphabet. Your task is to discover each letter, And complete each word on the grid.   I’m sitting in my favourite seat, slipper-boots on, pen poised, Night Tracks on the radio, Mostly music I’ve never heard before, nothing too frantic or noisy. A peeled and sliced apple ready to eat. First step. The setter provides two letters to start you off. Tonight, it’s I and H and there are a few of each. I fill these letters in on the grid, double-checking I haven’t missed any.   Then the scrutiny begins. Where are the doubles? Where might the E’s be? There’s usually a lot of them. (But then there might also be a lot of S’s!) I search the grid for a frequently occurring number, And spot an eight-letter word with the second, ...

  ‘Bonjour,’ says Beret, to a passing stranger, As he flaneurs along the Seine embankment, Happy to have no itinerary Just to follow his nose And see what turns up. A bright orange beret, nothing dull, for him, Worn at such a jaunty angle You’d swear it would slip off. But even as the breeze blows off Pont Neuf, Beret stays in position, defying gravity, cocking a snook. *** Baseball Cap, worn backwards, the essence of cool, Or maybe not! On her way to a gig, She stares through the tube window into the darkness of the tunnel, The brightness of the stations, Counting down the stops, Her barely moving fingers running through the keyboard riffs Of their new number. Jazz funk the music world calls it, But she dislikes genres and refuses to be pigeonholed. At Covent Garden, she rises to the surface, Tall, erect, composed, shades on, Baseball Cap minutely adjusted, And glides towards the venue, Knowing her trusty roadies will have everything...

  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.

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 ...

My beautiful beech tree, above us it towers, A constant shelter from those April showers. Tall, majestic, standing proud, A leafy protection beneath its shroud. Offering shade on a hot summer day, For family picnics and children at play. Warm sunny evenings drift into night, Calm and still beneath the moonlight.   Memories of Autumn I no longer treasure, Gathering leaves is a toil of a pleasure. Fluttering and falling without a sound, A vibrant carpet soon covers the ground. Crisp and crackling beneath our tree, Its branches stripped bare for all to see. Gnarled and twisted – reaching high, Towards a bleak and wintry sky.   A robin hops by, alone and bold, A solitary snowman stands frozen and cold. Fingers of frost stretch and crawl, Dancing snowflakes, how quickly they fall, Covering the earth now virgin white, Storm clouds gather as day turns to night. There’s no shelter now from the wind and rain, As the journey begins all o...

A Single Sparkler Expecting fireworks? They're stuck in a bucket.   Awaiting sunshine? There's drizzle expected.   Hoping for magic? Then don't look too closely.   The light show of my love is a single sparkler but watch it's trails as it's getting darker. It's worth the wait. A Late Bonfire He starts his bonfire after the night in the confines of his empty drive. He lays out logs and sets them alight and dark smoke climbs well before five.   He throws broken bricks onto this pyre, then twisted scrap metal and acrid acrylic. Old building material burns in his fire and chokes out the neighbours soon after six.   The last thing he chucks onto this blaze is a letter marked ‘official – cease and desist’. It flickers and blackens in illicit malaise but soon becomes ash and easily dismissed.

  The Brits.. …. are coming, and they’ll talk a lot of tosh they’ll talk of visions and plans but they ain’t got any dosh the only way that they could think to help us is by sending a worn-out double decker bus they can’t afford to send smart bombs or many fancy tanks so for those particular items you need to ask the Yanks plus you’ll need to call ‘em between eleven and noon as they’ll be in “meetings” every afternoon they’ll try to cosy up with real world leaders but they’re seen as a country of pleaders and they firmly believe in getting paid lots of cash by talking very posh and selling oil and gas and as any struggling person knows they seem to enjoy cutting energy, especially when it snows we are all members of that former exalted clan but we are tired, pissed off and in need of a viable plan no more corrupt cops or MP’s abusing rules and watching porn they should fully expect to be jailed and made to face our scorn but no, they smile smugly in th...

  Cinnamon and ginger in your favourite coffee shop, Crisply ironed shirts and the smell of polished shoes, Fragrant fallen leaves upon the gently warming soil, And frost assaults your nose in riotous shades of blue.   Richly scented candles and firelighters in the stove, Soups and stews and comfort foods simmering on the hob, The smell of car exhausts that lingers in the air, The odour of new notebooks you’ve bought for your new job.   The smell of the lawn’s last haircut before it goes to sleep, The final hurrah of flowers, including the wild roses. Polish on kitchen table, and oil on oak worktops Filling the hungry wood and filling up our noses.   Fragrant cocoa replaces tea as my supper drink of choice, Hot water bottle smells upstairs before we go to bed. Smelly umbrellas and wellies herald wetter days this month, And the spicy tang of Vapour Rub to clear my stuffy head.   Fragrant sun-warmed fruit brings thoughts of ...

  A cold east wind, whistles and blows. It’s a wild and stormy night. I’m just about to fall asleep, when on comes the security light.   I’m not sure it was such a bargain - even though it was less than half price. It seems to shine at any old time, not so good for a brand-new device.   I climb out of bed. It’s freezing cold, and I peer through my windowpane. My eyes adjust to the darkness outside, ‘cos the light’s gone off again.   A lonesome fox swaggers by, eyes bright as it stares ahead. The security light should be on – but it isn’t, so I’ll go back to bed.   I twist and turn beneath the duvet, trapped in an endless dream. Then the light shines brightly yet again, and I’m caught in its eerie beam.   I don’t look out, though I sense someone close, voices are calling my name. Shadows are spreading across my room. Fingers scraping my windowpane.   I’m shocked and scared as I try to hide, m...

Climbing the pull-down ladder into the attic again and again, dragging up with me a table top, its legs, a rug, lamps, a chair, and more with each trip.           (How I ’ve longed for such a chance, time and again spaces I’ve had           were overtaken by family demands)   The floor is now swept, Velux wide open, the sounds of an early summer morning deliciously wafting into the space.           (I don ’t even mind the sneezes the sweeping created, each tickle is            worth it)   Dust motes spiral in the faint breeze, highlighted by rays of sunlight.           (I wish I could capture the dust in a painting - it feels like MY dust up         here in the silence)   Artists’ sketchbooks, paints, pencils, ma...

  Time Not On My Side Precious days, months, years erode and nibble time away all too fast, casting memories aside to lie in fragments deep in my brain gradually fading away. Time On My Side Now in my seventh decade those fragments have awoken when I assumed they were gone. the arguments we had, silly jokes I told, me winning at scrabble (every time) well dancing, singing, working; tiny details of our life spewing forth in clear view and I remember us as we were. I still don’t know where the car is, I still can’t find the house keys. I’m sure, if you were here, you would know but time wasn’t on your side. © Christopher Lloyd Memories …… afterwards we didn’t meet again though I still dream of you, remember every inch of you, revel at your energy and zest, the way we were as one the iron bond we shared life partners, no one else mattered now simply one only dreams, memories of our days walking, chasing sticks but mistily, my eyes can see...