Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

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...

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.

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.

Today is the day, the very 1 st of May Where a new future for me awaits It feels very odd, to be left on my tod And enter a new state of fate Away from the regime, and chemo nurse team Who have cared for me half the year And after this session, along with their blessing I can start to get rid of the fear From two-weekly plans and interim scans My life has been all about treatment Now I’m more free, to get back to me With family and friend’s encouragement If only this virus, wasn’t so tireless In its bid to take over the planet I want to return, to the places I yearn I’ve done my time, god dammit! I’ve missed all my friends and key fashion trends As I’ve had to become such a hermit No eating out, and G&T droughts Because chemo would just not allow it No walks in the wood, when feeling not good And sleep, well I just cannot find it No concerts to sing in and definitely no swimming Lack of freedom, has been the worst bit ...

Earth spheres swelling, shrouded in darkness, sensing new warmth, hearing the whispers. Faintly at first then beginning to call. Needing to grow, to cast off the clods, not daring to breathe. Follow the sounds, words on the breeze resounding within. Slowly emerging from winter repose, the whispers of springtime beckon the brave. The first to appear. in shy revelation. And, confidence growing, ‘midst burgeoning green, displaying their treasures, each bud becomes bloom. The whispering fades. Spring’s song is beginning.

Waiting for Spring in Grimescar Valley A deer scouts the wood fringe where a laminated notice shouts, ‘It’s coming!’ Frozen still, every creature waits. Buds hold tight, not daring to breathe. Robin in military red - a thrush rehearses a private song while rooks conduct reconnaissance disguised as twig movements. Snowfall truce. Hard ground hesitates to liquefy - no squirrel springs to action, no mole digs in mutinous excavation. Tremor in the night - heavy plant thunder then landscape plundered for trenches, drains and aggregate. Frost delayed the advance. Now thaw brings war to fields - hedges ripped, stone walls breached, outmanoeuvred creatures flee. ‘It’s coming! Find a new home,’ the posted notice said. Only one side can win, and that side, this year, is not Spring. I wrote a poem, aged 17, about a housing estate being built over my favourite country walk. Fields have been lost to concrete all my ...