Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  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.

Amidst a maelstrom of threats, lurks the unseen enemy. It is transported on a whisper and contaminates the unwary.   It settles and spreads.   Breath by breath and touch by touch, it covers the planet.   A patina of anxiety rests over everything and everyone. Your city, like others, is learning to dodge and weave around this nightmare, this unshackling of our worst fears as human beings.   And yet, you are noticing anew the small things in life.   Appreciating again what really matters – a skill we lost and are slowly regaining. And then, devastation.   As if you don’t have enough to endure, an explosion of fire and what little security you think you had, is blown to the skies.   The dust settles and spreads.   More death.   More homelessness.   What is left to come? And yet, through a window whose glass is shattered by the blast, net curtains flutter.   Amidst the broken contents of an apartment, a piano is heard.   Sw...

  “What took you so long?” she asks me on entrance.             I don’t know what to say. Eventually her hard stare provokes a response.             “You know very well that’s a loaded question.”             She rolls her eyes. “Had a lovely time with your mate then?”             “Yes.” I throw down my tools, trudge further into the room. “Don’t we have the right to let off some steam?”             “Of course. I just wish you two wouldn’t linger like you do.”             “What do you mean?”             She turns to me fully. “Well, you have to stop existing at some time.”     ...

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...

Daisy woke with a start. She’d been dreaming. An owl perched on the bed post was staring at her. She was surprised to find a bird in her bedroom. And surprised she wasn’t scared. What are you doing here Mr Owl? Please – call me Oliver. I’m here because you summoned me. Did I? How? You said the magic word. Daisy didn’t know any magic words. Could it have been something in her dream? Anyway, I’m here now. Where would you like to go? Go – but it’s night time. I can’t go anywhere. Ah! That’s what you think. Just squeeze your hands together very tightly, think of somewhere nice and leave the rest to me. Seaside, paddling, ice cream, she thought. Oh, and some sunshine as well please. There was a sort of whooshing sound and it felt like she was flying. Before she knew it, her feet were wet. The water was lovely and warm, the sand soft, the sun hot – but not scorching! There was an ice cream in her hand, a Neapolitan. How did Oliver know it was her favourit...

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...

It was a still day, but oh so hot. The heat was so fierce it made the air shimmer like water. A heat haze, is what Mother Superior would call it, I suppose. On days like these, there is nothing you want to do more than shelter indoors or under the giant oak at the bottom of the field, but we could not, for it was harvest time and there was work to be done. There was always work to be done, but as novitiates, we could not complain, for it was God's work, honest and pure and he would be grateful for our contribution. The whole acreage has to be hand scythed by the end of the week. Storms may arrive, the heat was certainly an indicator of that, so with limited time left, we had to begin. The days were long, we woke at four, said our prayers, then got to work. Sister Agatha fainted in the field yesterday and had to be carried in by Jeb, one of the farmhands who helped us with the bales. It was a blessing that she was unaware of this, as she was always preaching about guardin...