Seeing the Light – Ullswater from Helvellyn by Shelagh Wain
The clouds lie thick and heavy, like
Dirty fibreglass, lagging the mountains
Dulling our senses as if earth sulks.
We labour on in single file.
Rain trickles on to cold skin.
Feet squelch in sodden marsh grass.
Huddled beneath a lone tree, we look back:
The wind shifts, tugs the grey curtain
Revealing shimmering blinds of falling light
And silver fingers trace their subtle course
Along the lake's spine,
Weightless and free.
INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS by Lynda Turner
"All applications must be in writing," the library assistant said
Before the young man had spoken.
"Complete this form in block capitals, please."
Did his handsome face not understand?
Each time she glanced up, his form was blank.
"Fill your details in there," she pointed to the squares.
Grimacing he picked up a pen.
Hand shaking, he started to write.
"In block capitals, please," she reminded him smiling.
"Just put one letter in each box."
Keen to help, she smiled again.
Laughing, he shook his head.
"Me internet?" he pleaded.
"No," she replied, "not until you've registered."
"On line…I go online?"
"Perhaps when you've answered the questions."
"Questions?" he echoed.
"Register first, then you'll be able to use a computer."
Silently their eyes locked
There seemed no need for words between them.
Understanding was all they required.
"Various rules apply to internet users in the library," she tried to explain.
"We internet?" he smiled,
"X there?" he asked.
"Yes," she sighed, knocked over her coffee and swore.
"Zat word, I know," he grinned.
WITNESS by Shelagh Wain
(St. Wilfrid’s Church, Barrow-on-Trent)
A low mound, safe above the probing flood
A sacred grove with swags of mistletoe
A knife to cut the berries, shed the blood
Appease the gods, allow the crops to grow.
A man of force and vigour felled the trees
To build a church, to which he gave his name.
Priests, knights, an anchoress, on bended knees
Have worshipped here. The village people came
For Sundays, weddings, birth and death. The stones
Re-echoed with their voices, hushed in prayer
Or raised in song, for centuries - their bones
Rest in the earth, their spirits fill the air.
Witness to plague and famine, war and strife
Through this place flows the moving stream of life.
FAULD CRATER by Shelagh Wain
Green larch tips reach up, searching for the light
Filling the void. It was not always so.
A farm stood here once, safe on its rocky slab
From the old gypsum mine-workings below.
War came; the galleries were stacked with bombs.
A hammer blow, a single spark and all
The farm, the fields, the men, were blasted high
To float, a mushroom cloud, and then to fall.
The earth lay raw, exposed, as if some beast
Had gouged its flesh deep with a giant claw.
Nothing grew. Buzzards wheeled overhead.
At dusk, a dog fox loped across the floor.
Coarse grasses crept over the edge.
Brambles and hawthorn followed where they led.
Boys from the village rolled stones down the slope
And tumbled after, heedless of the dead
Resting below. Someone laid out a cross
In bright, white gypsum. Later, they planted trees.
The land seems almost level now, a field
Of whispering larch fronds ruffled in the breeze.
Note: RAF Fauld explosion was a military accident which occurred at 11.11 am on Monday, 27 November 1944 at the RAF Fauld underground munitions storage depot in Staffordshire, England. It was one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history and the largest on UK soil.Between 3.500 and 4,00 tonnes of ordnance explode, mostly high explosives. the explosion crater with a depth of 100 feet and 250 yards across is still visible just south of Fauld, to the east of Hanbury, Staffordshire. It is now known as the Hanbury Crater.
A nearby reservoir containing 16,000,000 cubic feet of water was obliterated in the incident, along with several buildings including a complete farm. Flooding caused by the destruction of the reservoir added to the damage directly caused by the explosion.
The exact death toll is uncertain, it is believed that about 70 people died in the explosion and resulting flood. A memorial has been erected at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire.
When we moved to The Priory Centre, Stretton in May one of our members wrote the following short poem
Moving On (to write) by Cynthia Robinson
After years of meeting at the library venue in town
BMW decided to move, our funds were sinking down.
A suitable venue was selected to start the month of May
The Priory Centre in Stretton is where we'd meet, same time, same day.
For so many different reasons our membership was slowly depleting.
The room at the Priory was perfect, plenty of tables and adequate seating.
No, we don't have large windows to gaze out of at the greenery and flowing river,
But with no distractions we can simply write, a best seller, a number 1, a thriller?
We can once again make a cuppa and enjoy a welcome snack,
Biscuits as usual provided, oh, yes it's good to be back.
BMW provides an opportunity to write and receive helpful advice.
Critique is offered in a friendly way, a good experience, informative and concise.
Perhaps we'll find renewed inspiration and agree the move was right?
So we can enjoy our group and each other's work as we meet each week
TO WRITE