Seeking solace in numbers, they flock together, Perched on the edge of clefts and aisles and chairs, Whilst down below their mates peck through the clothes.
Though close, they never acknowledge each other’s presence, Except perhaps a brief shared nod between them, In recognition of their mutual plight.
And as each female emerges to the flock, They twitter, preening hair, and staking claims, Puffing their chests and hoping that she’s theirs.
There’s always great people watching to be had in shopping centres… (28.09.24)
It took a while to see beyond the wildness; those x-ray eyes that cut with lively looks suggested something stern was brewing within.
To start, I turned away in self defence, if I didn’t engage then I’d be safe, but when you swung the battering ram walls fell.
It started with a song. You sang along. Enthusiastically you raised your arms, a crazed conductor rallying the troops.
By the end of the song the mood had changed. The room that slumbered had now woken and with dancing eyes you winked in my direction.
For an encore, you cracked a mildly rude riposte then settled back into your chair, retreating behind those glowering brows once more.
I sensed, those days, that gaze looked deep within. Sadly, I never could reciprocate, lacking the vision to penetrate beyond.
Once a month I take a service at a local nursing home. Today I discovered that since I was last there, they’d lost one of our regulars, one of the characters. I’ll miss him! (26.09.24)
I shall never scale the heights of Everest, explore the alien ocean depths beneath, or skydive from the breathless edge of space.
I’ll never run the fastest 100 metres, hop, step and jump into the record books, or climb the podium of the Tour de France.
I will never win the Nobel Prize, for scientific discoveries as yet undreamt, or finally nailing down the theory of everything.
My paintings will not hang next to Van Gogh’s, my verse be ranked with sonnets by the Bard, or songs be played upon the radio.
My name will quickly fade from recollection, there will not be biographies of me, nor obituaries typed up in The Times.
But I will strive to love and that’s enough. For love is all that’s truly asked of us, and Love will be my harvest and reward.
Today I’ve been thinking about what it means to be fruitful as I’ve been planning various Harvest celebrations I shall be involved in. Paul’s words in Galatians 5:22 came to mind, ‘But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control’. (24.09.24)
Please mind the gap, tread carefully or Risk falling through the grasping crack. Beneath the step awaits unseen, A doom which hides below the tracks.
You hear the scream of biting brakes, But nothing is as it might seem. That sound? A mighty creature’s roar, As along the tracks it eagerly streams.
This beast that lurks unlit by light, Over the eons has gone berserk. And now its hand your ankle grasps, To pull you down with just one jerk.
There’s not much time, so please act now, Don’t hesitate, and you’ll be fine. Don’t hang around, because you’ll find, Upon your bones he’ll gnaw and grind!
I had a meeting in London today, and wrote this on the tube; the phrase ‘mind the gap’ demanded some form of comic verse. To be read out loud with expression! (23.09.24)
All this jostling and bustling, My to-do list is hustling, Tasks shoving and pushing, To get the first look in.
The long-term and urgent, Are scarily convergent. They’re shouting, demanding, Screaming, commanding.
They’re fighting and scrapping, Wrestling and grappling. Practising mad tricks, With devious tactics.
I can take it no longer, It’s driving me bonkers. I swear there’s no doubt, It’s time to scream out…
‘Form an orderly queue, All you things to do, There’s no need to run, I’ll get you all done.’
But the truth of the matter? The list’s getting fatter, And by the close of each day, The end’s further away!
For a whole variety of reasons, September to December is always the busiest time of year for me, with one thing following hot on the heels of the previous! Experience tells me I’ll get it all done, but there are days when it feels more than a little daunting. (22.09.24)
To start, prepare a base of knights from Arthur’s Court. and a dash of Robin Hood. Stir with diced Norse legends. Leave to simmer with a Hobbit, thirteen dwarfs, a wizard and an ancient dragon. Add a sprinkling of Old Ones and once the Dark has risen, accompany with a garnish of Garner, Brisingamen and owls.
Inspired by seeing a copy of Alan Garner’s brilliant Treacle Walker at my parent’s house. The owl is in their garden. (21.09.24)
A cat has taken up residence in our garden. They didn’t ask, they simply chose their spot and stayed without a please or by your leave. Each day they laid there as still as the ground below, until yesterday, when they saw a squirrel. Transformed, they moved by quantum mechanics from here to there seemingly in one instantaneous blurry blip, Schrödinger’s cat on ‘speed’. Luckily, for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction, and Newton squirreled the squirrel away.
I think we’ve been adopted. I don’t know if it’s a stray or domestic cat that’s simply taken a liking to our garden, but it’s certainly staked it’s claim. (20.09.24)
I only know it’s me because it says so, scribbled in blue biro in the corner; a photo of a cardboard box with legs: my legs, toddler legs, and shorts full of nappy. Above the words ‘Solidev Ltd’, my eyes and fingers peek through a crudely cut hole.
You tower over the top of the box, white shirt, back buckled, a Seventies moustache upon your lip, holding the box in place. My eyes are laughing. Yours? They’re full of concentration as you guide me across our manicured lawn towards the camera, making sure I do not trip.
Later, those same hands propelled me as I learned to ride, a love that now unites us. The bike was secondhand but you repainted it, made it new for me, and set me on my way. Turning, your hands have gone, I’ve been released: holding and letting go is a father’s task.
Next they’re teacher’s hands, hoiking children from a writhing mass of bodies, only to find me at the bottom. Your turn perhaps to want to hide in a box? Alas there’s none, unlike that time you proved you could do a headstand inside one’s fragile walls – don’t try that now!
Next time hands and boxes mix, I’m married. We’re on the move and you’ve kindly hired a van and driven down to help us. I know how much that stressed you out and yet you came regardless. We work all day, the two of us, shifting in silent concentration until it’s done.
Soon, another photo. No boxes now but four generations: Grandad, Dad, myself, my son. Like a flickerbook we move through time as eyes are traced across the image from left to right, and now we smile just like our fathers’ captured faces did back then.
Dad’s birthday’s coming up and it’s got me reflecting on our past and some of its memorable snapshots. (19.09.24)
Ode for the Day 