Change of life
Once I was a pirate,
the worst of the lot.
But my hook has gone rusty,
my leg has dry rot.
My parrot is stuffed,
the black flag’s a hanky.
My gun barrel’s jammed
and they’ve locked up the monkey.
I don’t frighten children,
I’m too sweet for Disney.
I’ve ditched all the rum
for a drink soft and fizzney.
Rod Riesco
Journey’s end in Latham’s wood.
Ralph Hepworth
A touch of doubt takes him as he closes the gate, but he pushes it away. He sticks with his early morning decision, to try once more. It’s worked for him in the past. Just because it didn't work last time doesn't mean it won't this time. But this wavering has brought him to a standstill, and he’s still not done with it. He leans on his stick and looks up and down the path. There's always been a path here but not like this. This is tarmac, wide and smooth and black with more than just a bit of traffic. It used to be a meandering thread of worn grass weaving in and out of the trees in the wood. Their wood; Latham’s Wood - their kingdom for play and pleasure. It had been a proper wood back then. Look at it now; a couple of dozen scruffy trees and bushes crammed between the path and the new ring road. He calls it new; it's been there for more than thirty years.
More remembering to do before he can move on. That's the trouble with memories; they're like paper clips coming out of a box. They get all tangled up; you never just get one on its own. He remembers when they’d all lived together in the big house, before mad Uncle Gerard set the stable on fire and got himself killed saving the horses. Then it turned out he’d driven the family business into the ground with a mountain of debt. They – his mother, sister and him – had ended up living in what had been their gatehouse. His Dad – broken by the prospect of poverty - didn’t even make it that far.
He shifts uncomfortably, putting more weight on his stick. His back’s bad but that's not what’s bothering him right now. Their business going under put a good few locals on the street. Many blamed the family and made their hostility plain - or at least they did fifty or so years ago. He'd been just a boy back then but still remembers that so sharply that, even now, he feels in the wrong and furtive once more. He shrugs that off. It was a long time ago. It's not like that anymore. He pulls himself together and sets off down the path at best speed.
A couple of hundred meters and he's at the crown of the bend. Here he can see both up and down the path. It's clear. Suddenly, he feels furtive again, this time with good reason. He moves quickly, pushing his way behind a big elder. He gets scratched, not much though, so he presses on. A bit of pruning maybe? Not yet. Maybe next month, September. Then the schools will be back and the weather cooler so less traffic on the path. Do it now and he’ll likely be spotted by dog walkers and kids playing war games. He doesn't want that. This is his secret way into his private place.
A last push now. Just these half dozen final steps through the gap between the hawthorn bushes and he’s there. You can’t see this place from the path. It's tucked in behind the bushes he’s just squeezed by and there’s thick greenery the other side. There, made it again and nobody any the wiser. He sits down on the worn green canvas chair that he put here seven years ago. That was the year that sister Madeline died. The chair has lasted well. Tucked away in the shade of three trees - two oak and a hornbeam – it’s out of the worst of the weather. But it can’t last forever – and, he thought, neither can he.
He takes a pull on his flask. The sharp taste of the spirit gets him back on track. He braces up to doing what he came to do. Eyes closed, he strains to step his mind back through time, to recapture what once had been. To go back to how he felt when his life was full and warm and
rich, not mean, niggardly and lonely.
He’s been on his own since Mads went. His Mother was long gone before that. They both died at the same age he is now. Stop that! He pulls himself up sharply. Don’t get distracted. He wants to go back there, not keep on dwelling on his journey between then and now. He focuses and begins to subtract bits of now from his awareness. But then he’s pulled up. A truck over on the road gives out with half a dozen honks, grabbing his attention. He waits, eyes closed.
Then a dog yaps over on the pathway. Dogs are his enemy. What hides you from a human does not hide you from a dog. There’s a scurry and snuffle to his left. He opens his eyes and looks. A mischievous looking collie dog crouches there, staring at him hopefully. It has the look of a pirate - one eye set in a black patch. He wants it to go away but gives in and strokes it. The owner calls, ‘Patch! Here Patch!’ Patch scampers off, tail thumping.
That helped him. Patch has lifted his spirits. Back to the job in hand. First, close eyes, then take away the sounds that don't belong. Chatter on the path is easy; the sound of traffic coming from beyond the boundary wall, not so much. It's the sounds of the wood that's left, faint but growing louder as he concentrates on them. He holds it here a while. Usually, he can get to just hearing sounds of the wood - last year he got to a fox bark - but today feels like a good day. A day to try harder? Then smells come too – wild herbs, thyme maybe, and something floral. They get stronger. Now the wood is all he’s aware of.
Could today be the day? The day to try for his dream; that with his awareness full of the sounds and smells of the wood, he’ll open his eyes and actually be back then. Back in the woods as they were, and back to his life as it was. It's a daft dream but a glorious one, so glorious that he's always been scared to try it. Today? Maybe? He'll see. He screws his eyes up, focuses his mind and presses on. He mines his memory with care to add to the here and now in his head. Minutes pass. Might he be there? He can't believe it but it all sounds and smells like it might be. So, he dares to hope, calls up his courage and opens his eyes – opens them to glory.
The 12 words for this month are: underline, month, drama, cast, spontaneous, gold, wife, stick, kidney, stereotype, foundation, convert.
What’s Cooking?
I’ll stick this month to being a wife
All drama cast aside!
Spontaneous cooking - that’s the life
I’ll take it in my stride.
A steak and kidney pie I’ll make
Served on a big gold dish
To underline my urge to bake
And it will be delish!
I might convert our garden shed
Into a barbecue
So he continues to be fed
With burgers, buns and stew!
A stereotype meal for him indoors
A culinary sensation
I like to hear his wild applause
Our marriage’s foundation!
Joanna Seale
WDu3a – Inspirational Writing Group
Inspired by - Conversations & Connections through Poetry Word Weavers Collective Springboard Festival 2025 -
Criterion Theatre – Coventry
Institute of Engagement – Warwick University
In particular “The Poetry Connection” by George Bastow
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WDU3A – Inspirational Writing Group 2025 Task – response to “Why do I write”
Do I have the genesis of an idea!
If yes; the first step is to take one.
The Challenge
Find & fill your blank page or canvas; just let it flow.
Can you inject the weft n’ weave of words to make a rich garment!
Can your pen release, the ink of hope.
Imagine – write; reimagine – be open minded, CREATIVE.
Are you capable of reaching the readers emotions?
Reflection
What do you feel, what do others feel?
Can you embrace your Writers perspective and expectations; with those of others.
What will they see and feel of your words.
What will they say of your work.
What sort of Writer am I?
What sort of Writer do I want to be.
My adaptation –
“One cannot think/write well, love well, sleep well; if one has not dined well” - Anon.
- Writing inspires me to inspire others
- Writing is therapeutic, it gladdens my heart
- I am not alone, I am with my characters
- Writing helps to fulfil my imaginative needs
- Writing explores my memories and magical moments
- Writing allows others to know my life
- Writing allows others to judge my character
- Writing……………………………………………………….
Writing is a series of magical journeys aboard the ship, that travels the sea and outer space; in search of new Worlds.
It is our Literary Legacy.
What’s more important Love or Money?
I was listening to a conversation which happened on a bus tour a while ago, and two people were discussing this question – what is more important Love or Money.
I listened with interest as the women was pointing out that love is more important while the man was taking the opposite view.
I reflected on this as both are important, Love and Money, but in different ways. Are they in the same league though? I mean are they comparable with each other? Or is it for instance comparing a caterpillar to a tin of baked beans!
Love has been written about many times, but if I had to choose one or the other, I must be honest it would be a difficult decision, to give up everything for love would be like becoming a nun and giving up all worldly possessions and living in a community with others who had done the same. If you were not in a community, living in poverty is difficult too, as it would eventually be very stressful and lead to other conditions such as illness. In the Greek language there used be four definitions of love, romantic love, parental love, unconditional love and friendship love, then three more have been added for philosophical reasons, which are playful or flirtatious love, enduring love, based on shared goals and self-love or self-care.
Can the same definitions be used in terms of money? I do not think so, money is more of the world, money is a man - made commodity which allows us humans to do, and buy things. For me it seems a tool that can be used in order to do something.
Does the question come down to making decisions from your head or your heart? Heart seems to be the best way to begin and let everything follow on from that. Love in all its forms seems to be the best thing in the world, and if we are looking for love? This is where hope comes in, which is the one emotion, according to Pandora, we are left with when everything else fails.
Margaret Moore. 23rd June 2025
Sept Theme – The Sea
I feel/know the Sea has a great impact; on everyone on Earth.
La mer
Moons celestial influence on your tides and our moods.
You were our only conduit for travel to new Worlds.
Your vista a feast for our imagination.
Giving food in abundance, for each generation.
As children, our family adventures to see your glory.
To surf, swim and sail; to wonder, at your serenity!
You are still, calm, unpredictable; so magnetic.
As ourselves; you sometimes erupt to awesome might.
You capture Earth’s temperature to form;
Continental divides
Cloud structures
Icebergs and Mists
Your immense swell and power, create shore-line;
shingle and sand
caves and rock pools
cliffs, pillars and arches
Your being, is an ever-present foundation.
An invitation to set off on a challenge.
Your solace, offers us adventures of a lifetime.
Great Seas and Oceans welcome great rivers into their arms.
Some days, we are becalmed; as you.
Wind removed from our sails.
Reflection time.
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We can’t believe what we have gotten through – the turmoil of Life.
Loosing love, a friend or job.
The sadness of bereavement.
The loss of good health.
Despite that we can’t fix some things; the energy from others, keeps us going.
As does Love – Faith & Hope.
Ron Betts – August 2025
MAKING BREAD
Since making my own bread, a few years ago now, I would like to share with you some thoughts that have been coming to mind when making
bread. These thoughts have not happened all in one go, but gradually, over time.
When I first began making bread, I found that I always got something wrong – perhaps I left out the sugar, or left out the salt. I did not prove it
long enough – but the strange thing was, that it was always eatable. It seemed that the bread was very forgiving of my mistakes, it was still
bread and it was good to eat. Then the kneading of the bread, and the play is on the word need, or how it is spelt. The bread needed to be kneaded. A bit like us really. Then, as I learnt from my 1961 edition of Mrs Beeton’s Cookery and Household Management, that when making bread it’s good to have a warm kitchen, again a bit like us, a warm kitchen is always comforting.
The first time the bread is kneaded, the ideal is to get as much air into the mixture as possible in order to encourage the carbonic acid gas to
form air holes. Another interesting fact is that the yeast is living and comes alive when it is watered and exposed to the air. Then there is the
proving, or resting time. Just like us when we need to rest, and in our resting we are re-enlivened. This is when the bread is alive and grows.
After resting, we need to knead again, but this time its getting all the air out of the bread mixture. Similar to us and our breathing – our
inspiration and our expiration.
When the mixture is placed into the oven, it kills the yeast. For me, this is a bit like dying to self, or trying to! When cooked, it gives us our ‘daily bread’ and the bread becomes alive again, in us.
Margaret Moore
5 th July 2025