Time, taken

By Carole Blackburn

Lying awake

In the darkness, she cries alone.

The clutter of her yesterdays, amongst am I, is known.

 My smooth touch, to her is all but remote and cold.

Sounding out I am, aware and being as I can, bold.

The night comes and crowds

Her thoughts

Her future imagined

should, she dare.

 

Her days lingering, longing, for his return.

How time stands still in distant shores, she knows,

She yearned.

In all ways, her touch with him, through me.

Forever, a reminder of the time shared, should be?

A precise, punctual friend, remains to have and hold.

Brown paper wrapped, tied with string that day.

Bloodstained, but now, so old.

I am wounded, repaired, she is told.

Though his time

Silence deep in the ground, he has gone.

Her memories, they continue to go on.

 

In and out as the night hours,

hounds and swallows time away.

As the Dawn, lifts her for another day to

toil with her emotions, in depth.

Days on days, gone by, she wept.

For in his pocket, sat I.

My one desire, displaying, doing.

My job remains always,

Time to keep.

Glanced in moments,

For reassurance of when

he would hope, again her to meet.

Had the War machine won the day?

Battled by their marching feet.

With cries of woe and pain, as

 they were in the real defeat.

But my chimes, quietly charmed

While in her palm.

Though, no rest she will have in sleep.

As the path, he trod, with them

Eternally, human beings, too Deep.

 

Copyright Carole Blackburn            

November 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

September Memories

By Carol Blackburn

 I have tiptoed across the harvest fields,

A track is cut, by so many that heeled,

Their way was direct, to shorten the trips

It may be because of, dodgy hips.

But out and about in pastures, once green.

A delight of scent and all that’s seen.

Freedom moments, that are stolen

catapulting into motion.

Now.

Memories of our devotion

Of another Indian Summer.

Not diluting its feel

In Autumn, is such a thrill!

As the dusk descends across our backs

And takes heed of all who went and tracked.

Across the harvest fields, I would tiptoe

For the scent and sight of the green,

Now mown.

 

Copyright  Carole Blackburn ~  September 2021

 Return to Southend 1

By Carol Blackburn

The forecast was encouraging with bright intervals and a gentle breeze. The high tide was due at mid-afternoon and Henry was preparing to go home to Southend. An elegant fellow and others would say “Not a hair out of place.”

Now thinking back, Henry’s life had thrown him a bounty, a good life. There was someone for him, Hetty his partner, to care for him. This lucky reward continued with the arrival of his numerous offspring. Nevertheless, Henry had been forced to travel across to the other side of the Thames Estuary. Due to the burden to put food into the mouths of his children, who still lived with them. He thought of them as his “Forever family”. The days as the Sun cracked were filled with fresh vigour from the little ones, that continued until the day slowed and peace was regained. His family antics were just like the waves rushing, crashing, exploding on the seashore at Southend. Then as gentle as silk as the waves rippled back out to sea, only to be repeated all over, again. But as with the way of life, Henry realised that nothing lasts forever. Not even the bad stuff!

His thoughts weaved further. Southend on Sea, like many seaside towns had changed physically and the needs of Henry and Hetty’s brood could no longer rely on Southend being the one-stop for everything. The daily commute across to Whitstable would not be easy for Henry. This necessitated travelling to this richer area across the Thames, where the pickings were plentiful giving Henry the mental stamina to continue his daily commute. However, physical stamina was another thing altogether.

So, on a Wintry day, the family moved to Whitstable to take up permanent residence sadly in a squatty attic. This was all he could find to keep his loved ones safe. Henry was determined his family tree would not be cut short. Survival was paramount.

As with all of us, time flies, and children grow, thrive and move on to have lives of their own.

Then cruelty fell upon Henry when he lost Hetty, all too soon. For Hetty, no illness, just a brutal swift end, leaving Henry alone. Although his future with Hetty had been cut short, he was determined, to carry on.

Now, Henry bittersweet needed help. Although Hetty was no longer at his side, she had guided him with his final decision. A final move. He decided to return home to Southend; being his birthplace it drew him with strength and memories of happier days.

Now the day had come for Henry to take his final pilgrimage across the Estuary to stay in Southend. By returning to a familiar area, he felt this could ease him and provide him with stability. He would settle back not far from where the Bandstand used to be and with her Majesty Queen Victoria down the way. This would provide a place daily to stop and rest. He would share the lovely view with Her Majesty’s commanding glare over the waves. However, for others, this silent statue companion symbolised an era that was fading fast. But not for Henry.

The journey back to Southend took a little longer. His older bones creaking. Nevertheless, the familiar sights, smells, and sounds jangled his senses and touched him with a welcoming reassurance.

This bereft widower with his mellowed eyes looked around to where he and Hetty had started. Then returned his eye gaze to look up at Her Majesty, taking an extra gulp of sea air, confidence swelled his chest.

However, when visiting Southend or any sunny coastal waters. Henry was best known by the likes of you and I by:

 “Oh no, look what that blessed Seagull has gone and done!”

Have a good life Henry the Herring Gull.

 

Carole Blackburn   Nov 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 Joe

By Carole Blackburn

Joseph Walter Halliday blinked deliberately as his rheumy blue eyes glanced towards the boating lake in the park. While sitting on his usual bench at the same time in the afternoon. His previously sun kissed blonde hair was now the colour of well-trodden snow. Together with his wiry beard, which was easy to tend to. The “can’t be bothered” style suited him inwardly.

His familiar jokey self had departed swiftly after she had left. He was always slumped inwardly and his lined troubled face, today, was quietly silent.

Peering down at his gnarled fingers as they weakly gripped his tortoiseshell rimmed glasses, he shivered as his mind searched for his warmer “Salad days”.  His outward appearance showed to the outside world, he was deeply old. He was no longer on trend in his attire. Faded denims, a brilliant white cotton Tee-shirt, waistcoat, and desert boots would have been his daily uniform. But now he was wrapped up against the weather. The navy Macintosh was buttoned high. It hid the hand knitted cable cardigan; she had made for him last Christmas and the chequered fleece shirt was useless against his inner iced soul. His selective hearing was getting choosier according to his daughter. But hearing aids were for the Deaf, according to Joe.

He blinked but glanced away, as others in the park strolled and passed him. No connection was safer and it hurt less, he thought. If he had spoken, his yellowing buckled teeth would have wiped a smile off your face. Although he was presentable to others, they would have been aware at a closer distance his odour which was in need of attention. As with his hearing, Joe’s sense of smell had faded. Previously, he would have spent as much time as any teenage girl, preparing himself, for her. Everything would have been fresh and new about Joe on a daily basis. But it was not necessary, he felt now. His perspective in life had crashed out of all recognition with his younger self. However, he would never lose sight as his experiences wrinkled his face as he peered into the future.

 

Copyright Carole Blackburn

(A descriptive piece written before joining RLWG)

 

Sunset

 

The Rayleigh Scattering

By Carole Blackburn

Sitting in her fragrant garden with its decorative and concise edges, with Henri her devoted husband, they had continued to enjoy this pleasure in life, until one summer ago. Maggie had promised him she would watch the sunset with a glass of something and enjoy their garden, forever. The warm air caressed her aging bones and her thoughts drifting into a different world and time.

The wooden tatty desk in John Strutt’s study was covered with his paperwork: A clutter of his many thoughts on a fascinating theory. Outside in silence, the sun was setting, a huge canopy of fading warmth, in the evening sky.

His supper arrived, as regular as clockwork, carried in by Mrs Matterson. This last of her evening duties for Lord John, 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh. There was no conversation at this hour, apart from,

“Thank you, Matterson.”

Her curtsey and a gentle nod were her reply.

On leaving his study, her words were always the same,” Will that be all, my Lord?”

“Yes, Mrs Matterson, it will be.”

John sighed as he reclined back in the leatherbound chair, another day had gone. The gas lamp would soon be needed. He was driven to continue with his thoughts, after his supper of rye bread, cheese, and a glass of the deepest red wine.

The inner glow from his wine soothed his thoughts that had been screeching for his attention. His need for calming solitude came as he raised his eyes to the spectacular sight of the Sun melting behind the rooftops, above Maldon. The river Blackwater ebbed and flowed nearby in obeyance to the pull of the Moon. Forever, this relationship with our planet has shaped our world, our lives, as does the Sun. 

His gas lamp flickered with shapes that pranced around him. Illuminating his world, as the outside darkens. His supper concluded with crumbs that littered on top of his papers; he had nibbed in italics. Diagrams altered with an urgency to follow his train of thought. The glowing sight in the sky had become his main thought together with the reason for its occurrence, over the past few years.

Why can we witness the splendour of a sunset?

How does this seemingly natural display occur?

What makes sunsets possible?

Always, the sunset colours vary, reflecting through the clouds as the sinking sun ignites the horizon. He never tired of these safe visual pyrotechnics in his daily life. He was told the colours could vary from shades of blue and green. A learned colleague, Edward Routh had sent word of his ideas that very week from his own experiences from the University laboratory.

Edward days and nights flowed and melded into one. His slumber would often be broken as the night warden gently shook him as the next day dawned. No beginning, no ending for him.

John and Edward would pool their ideas as their individual gas lamps flickered while outside a globe of fire, with its intense heat lowered in the sky. Lord Rayleigh’s thoughts hinted at a possible transferring of its heat with the presence of substances in the atmosphere. A potion maybe, that was a presence in the sky. A catalyst of some sort. His thoughts were missing a vital thread, John pondered.

These two men with their insatiable curiosities of the techno-coloured skies fuelled their notes, debates, and presentation papers to the numerous faculties around Europe.

The night curtain fell on this spectacular sky show, once again. Now, the night stars were waking up. Their mother, the crescent moon glowed. The atmosphere was translucent between him and the free light display in the sky. For many these dusk displays were taken for granted. Unlike Lord John, the fascination of the skies kept him awake most nights.

John picked up his calculations with his current thinking. His scribbled ideas all over them as he read aloud,” A sunset has three stages; Civil, Nautical and Astronomical twilights and the last one I have calculated as being 12-18 degrees below the horizon. He continued as he turned the page, “Dusk occurs at the very edge of this stage. The night is defined when the sun reaches 18 degrees below the horizon and with the Sun no longer illuminating the skyline”. He concluded.

Rubbing his chin, he recalled not every evening sky was a picture to behold. Something was making a difference.

The night carried on as his thoughts drew the threads of his theory together. John sent word to Edward; he would have stirred by now.

A gentle tap on the study door behind him signaled that Mrs Matterson needed to carry in his breakfast tray. It had been Evelyn, his wife’s decision for this unusual eating arrangement. The time when they had shared mealtimes together had become a distant memory. She knew him too well to demand anything when his every grain of thought was required elsewhere. For John, he did not need the additional distraction to be present in the dining room and Evelyn would never contest her needs over his.

An enquiring mind brings sheer joy to its owner and for those around a profound sense of awe at hearing the words from such a person.

Such a brain as John’s which calculated and revisited the Cul de sacs of all the unfinished equations had led to a life for his wife Evelyn, few women would contemplate. It would have not been considered, at this time, a proper marriage, let alone continue with a marriage of such solitude. Looking in on their relationship, the outside world would have had eyes of envy. A lifestyle of the well to do and all their needs met. Although few words were spoken, Lord John was forever in Evelyn’s debt. Never taking her faithfulness for granted. This guarantee in their relationship was as solid as a rock, like granite. In this way they love and understanding for each other was immeasurable.

Now, John was determined to prove his thoughts to the World and he would not disappoint, this physicist needed closure. Eventually, John’s Sunset theory was tested and was finally accepted. John’s thinking had urged Edward to concur, that the removal of the shorter wavelengths of light due to the scattering by the air molecules which were much smaller than the wavelengths of visible light. These came to be known as “Rayleigh scattering”, named after him, the sunset hues with a spectrum ranging from the yellows and reds to greens and blues. That burned as the Sun lowered in the sky and appears like a wonderful act of nature, for most.

Back in her garden, Maggie blinkered as the last of the day’s sunset vanished below the horizon once again. Taking herself inside knowing that her distant relative, Mrs Matterson had witnessed an amazing theory unfold in the study, of Lord John, the 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh.

  

All of Lord John’s work concluded on his death on the 30^th June 1919 in Witham, Essex.

Copyright Carole Blackburn Aug 2021

Runestones 04

 Find a way

Carole Blackburn

The brightening world looked on with slitted eyes.  Helgason finished his feast of berries he had collected along his route. Perched on the rockpile, he frowned at the Rune circle. The carved stones somewhat worn, that encircled him. There were times, he would have been crouching down in his usual hiding place. Here he would have observed the Elders. Mattis, Sigrid, and Junis, the Statesmen as the youngsters named them, who had been elected by the community.

Often at home Helgason, would lay near the hearth, at the end of the day only to hear his father say, “The telling of the Runes,” is a secret meeting of great importance,” in an attempt to silence his son’s curiosity.

These attempts of his father, failed once and for all, after he first saw Astrid, at the annual community assembly, at the coming of the harvest moon. The gathering for the Norse god Frigg, who was a paragon of love, fertility, and fate. He decided then and there, he needed to find out more about his future with her.

When the days dissolved into nights, and the darkening stretched into the colder season. And the ‘telling of the Runes’ were due to commence. Helgason trekked along the craggy path and hid behind the thorny shrubbery on the very edge of the forest glade, but still in earshot of the three elderly Statesmen. These became regular outings for Helgason and were to become his education into manhood.

Helgason trusted the wisdom of the Runes. They protected his kind; the runes’ knowledge had guided life for centuries. His ancestors would never have disputed their decisions. Just as the mountain air filled his lungs, the Runes had imbued him with their secret powers, casting no shadows within him.

With winter creeping across the wilderness of his homeland of Noreg (Norway, to you and I) being the eldest son, Helgason’s, hunting skills were already honed. His father regarded him as a dependable male, bringing home his animal kills and foraged supplies, to sustain his family over the darkening season. It was time for his son’s future to commence.

Astrid’s gentle but stubborn streak flowed within her. Becoming a woman and battling with her older sisters, Erika and Ingrid’s growing demands, to find their individuality. Together with their father’s attention since their mother’s death, challenged them all.

 None more so than, Astrid.

Trouble had laid ahead for this family, the fourth baby had not been planned and the Runes had foreseen this. Mattis had warned the family, to be prepared. The outcome, left Astrid distraught knowing her mother’s arms would never cradle her, again.

It was usual for the sunrise to warm and melt the grey dark mood that hung in Astrid’s mind of what her future may become. However, today her greying mood clung to her like the fog that shrouded the morning ground. It had been her chore to forage for firewood for the cooking of the main meal. Her courage to cope made her adept in her life to carry on to the best of her ability. In whatever way, she appeared, to the outside world. However, she was brightened by a chance meeting with Helgason that day. He had spied her wandering, seemingly lost.

Now, they sat on the rockpile, huddled against the howling wind, after all of the three statesmen had left the Rune circle. They had heard them translate the Runes which foretold the young adults their future. It was settled. Sorted. They were to be wed.

 Astrid was not so sure and asked, “My situation will bring its own future, can we manage it alone, Helgason?” 

His thoughts swirled around eclipsing the truth.

It would be fine, ‘the telling of the runes’, have spoken. He thought.

He would find a way.

 Hiding from the truth, was a way Helgason tried to regulate difficulties in his life.

Glancing down at his hands, which had been scarred forever. That day’s event came flooding back. The scalding water had seeped into his skin when trying to help his mother in the kitchen. The disfigurement was often hidden by mittens even on the hottest of days. This everyday reminder of his now, damaged, previously carefree boyhood days. At times, this memory, caught him unaware, just like his feelings for Astrid.

The Norwegian way of life is to be prepared. Mother nature guides and watches the planet’s custodians. With the intent of nurturing one generation to the next. The runes carved into the circle of stones, arranged over time to remain, like a torch, forever.

Life’s route with its twists and turns had bought Helgason to a crossroads on this eve meet, with Astrid. In a familiar spot, they had chosen after the community assembly for the god Frigg, just a few months past. Now, not long to wait.

The day became night, with a patchwork of clouds in hues of grey, gathered. Astrid walked hand in hand with her sister, Erika, who guided her younger sister. Now, essential in the dimming light and the threatening rain,

Helgason’s figure silhouetted the skyline, in the last edge of daylight before the night took over. He turned on hearing footsteps, but only one pair he could hear now. Concern raised in his chest, forcing his focus on the sound of the footsteps. He could see Astrid was alone, her hands outstretched feeling the night air for danger.

Erika, had with reluctant feet returned home, for her job was now done. The birth of her youngest sister, the unseen baby in her mother’s womb. Hiding a challenge not foretold.

The runes belong to the gods and their reasoning of altered lives are kept from the planet’s custodians.

Astrid sensing Helgason, her eyes that had never focused, never seen. Hands that grasped the darkness as he took her hand into their new life.

The planet’s past is part of our changing world. It will continue to stride forward promoting its custodians, into finding a way.

 

 Copyright Carole Blackburn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 Pink ticket

By Carole Blackburn

Grabbing the armrest and my father’s hand with my other clammy palm, the Boeing 747 bumped along the runway at Nassau International Airport. The gateway into the Bahamas. I tried to reassure myself that traveling again, would help, both of us.

“We have had, a wonderful life, haven’t we, Jacinda? And it will return, my love.” Dad was forever the calm in my storm.

Stepping back, into the wider world, had been an unexpected treat. At first, Dad had been reluctant, due to the limited travel time on the tickets and the unpredictable weather of our destination.

“The Bahamas are tropical, after all, Dad.”

 I knew this lucky treat, we deserved.    

Gathering our belongings from the overhead locker, we followed the procession of tourists to the Arrivals terminal. It opened into a vast honeycomb canopy that surrounded me with unfamiliar sights and sounds. However, I found myself with my familiar accomplice which permeated ripples of rapid firing into my chest that knew, no ceasefire. A familiar sensation, that tested my control once again.

Jacinda, breathe, breathe, I thought.

In the airport terminal, we absorbed the atmosphere. Whilst strolling, we located the exit and flowed with our fellow travelers towards the gliding, sliding doors. The warmth bellowed in, as I spied the line of taxis. We rippled out into the late haze. The anticipation flowed from the face of our cabbie-to-be. He beckoned us to his cab, which took us into the bustle of New Provence island.

The 4-star hotel with its sleek walls lined with doors, which would open into awaiting rooms of untold promises for those seeking paradise. Following the directions given, Dad and I trundled until our door number 103, smiled back at us. On entering, my eyes conducted a tour around, only then did they judder, as the sea view which came into focus through the French doors. My vision hypnotized, paralyzing me for a moment in a welcomed stance of relief. We had made it, safely.

Within the hour, my suitcase emptied, and with the lighter feel of cotton floating over my body and my feet freed, which were able to breathe again. I could then shake Dad from his catnap. Waiting as he stirred, I peered through the Sun-drenched gossamer window drapes as they fluttered, as paradise awaited.

Stepping outside, I blinked at the jeweled azure waves that danced in the distance. Daring me to take its invite. I accepted. Dad stretching out lounging with pride, again watching his only daughter, now happy once more.

 

1

That evening, bought a relief of a cooling breeze to my sun-kissed shoulders. Glancing at Dad, the atmosphere wound its self around me like a seductive pashmina. The hapless band with their West Indies tone percolated, only added to my intoxicating feel of how lucky, Dad and I were to be here. Whilst I reminisced, our recent stroke of luck.

Ted’s stubby, pincher, digits had picked out the last raffle ticket for the evening and with his tannoy-like voice.

“Pink ticket number 3-6-7, pink ticket 367,” while scanning around the seated audience. My eyes popped and nudged Dad to look down at the winning first prize ticket in my hand.

 

Only four months later, with that prize unfolding now, the ripples of the sea tickled the shoreline. I languished, as it instilled me into a troubled slumber.

 On that late afternoon, Mum had grabbed her car keys, happy just to run an errand for me.

“No worries love, I have time to pop into town, before my Bingo. It won’t take long” 

How true.

Her kindness, until her end, cradles me, still.

The only certainty in all our lives is that it will end one day. The ‘’how and when’ hangs, like the sword of Damocles. It accompanies us, always.

Now my morning, sprung into life as the beachwear clad bodies began to litter the loungers. We ventured out. The sand shifted beneath my naked feet, whilst my glittery flip flops entwined in my fingers like jewels. Dad in his comfy prone position having the full attention of one of the waiters lasted, but a few hours. The sweltering midday sun in Paradise summoned him to a retreat, into the coolness of our cocooned accommodation and for a wishful, refreshing nap, behind our French doors.

“You don’t mind, Jacinda, do you? love.”

“No worries, Dad I will soak up the Sun, a little longer,”

Drifting in and out of my thoughts. Alone again …I must do this. I turned and watched him shuffle back inside.

The afternoon heat faded into balminess with the sea blending with the cloudless sky, veiled me with its tranquillity. I needed to turn over like a spit roast, in doing that, I noticed the beach fringed parasols were swaying like dancers in time to the wind. I reached for my beach top as the sand began to cloak me like a shroud.

The ease of the afternoon quickened its pace, as others around me scooped up their belongings. Hastened by the agitated, angered waves. Seemingly, reacting to the loss of its Paradise and all it had known. It roared and spat its emotions, this despairing response, prevailed. It had no control of this situation.

2

The Palm trees and the clumps of surrounding grasses twisted and turned in support to the reactive turmoil of the waves. Every step I endeavoured towards my shelter; Nature’s tidal tyrant smacked me with its forceful attitude. Our French doors slammed behind me, I was safe, again.

 I continued to witness others deserting this haven, who scuttled to safety. My focus fixed on an older couple hand in hand, but torn apart and then discarded like empty seashells that had once bedecked Landgrove cove, such unnecessary cruelty.

Frenzied panic mounted, as it surged my mind to find a release. My eyes widened to this apocalyptic vision; the heaviness of a parked trunk doing a ‘roly-poly ‘like the ease of a floating feather twirling in a warm breeze. The cacophony that orchestrated with the lashing, whipped destruction of this paradise, rendered me helpless. I freeze-framed in the pandemonium of hurricane Cecilia.

A moment of stillness, human voices cut in. Their panic vocalised with screeching at this catastrophe, to halt. Desiring to be awoken, to resume with their normality in Paradise. Now in my trance-like minds’ eye, I tried to focus on the calm of the previous day.

However, it engaged me back to my pink ticket, that had bought me here, which laid crumpled in the bottom of my flight bag.

The Pink ticket bought clarity to my mind, “Storms if you allow them Jacinda, they will always rage within you.”

Earlier, Dad had stirred into the world and had shuffled to the opened doors. Only noticing the calm before the impending storm, he closed them. Now being shaken into the world of violence that threw him against those same doors, splintering his head.

My world shrunk.

Outside, the palms bent and gyrated to the aggression and screams of Cecilia beating without care on those who succumbed to her terror.

Cecilia’s purpose was to make her presence felt. Her destructive journey had collided with mine. Both unexpected to this paradise. I mourned, as the world beyond continued to cartwheel out of control.

 The only certainty in life drew me closer. Paradise rescinded.

 

Copyright Carole Blackburn

 

 

 

 

 

 Our Hibernation is over

By Carol Blackburn

From floating,

Flowing,

Soaking.

Drenching,

Immersing,

Momentarily drowning.

Then gulping for air

Our friendships

are sailing,

back.

They are loved.

 

Observing Mother nature.

Her gestures,

beckoning,

reviving,

inhabiting

with new life.

She is loved.

 

 

The touch of the Sun.

He’s kissing,

Caressing,

Clasping my hand.

Accompanying us,

From Dawning,

warming,

tanning,

shadowing,

to Gloaming.

He is Loved.

 

Our world,

is waking,

evolving,

longing,

resolving in our arms.

To welcome,

To gather,

To befriend.

Scooping us to

Connect,

back again.

 

Being, Human,

You and I,

We are loved.

 

 

April 2021   CAB.

 

Monday 12^th April 2021 in England we reopened from the 3^rd Lockdown due to Covid 19 virus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone, Cheers!

 Everyone, Cheers! (‘Super Saturday’ approaching during Covid 19 )

By Carole Blackburn 

We cannot raise a glass or two,

I fear amidst our old friends, as I knew.

It is not granted my love, for fear,

The sprawl of this unseen,

stench less, hushed, viral killer.

As hosts it transforms us, it is no thriller.  

Ailing.

Descending.

Shifting us to stay away, until Friday.

 

In the past, oh, but the brave, dare to trudge,

One hour a day, it was, for our amusement.

This prolonged monotony was becoming translucent.

For a drought-like, brunch?

Through recreational park gates, 

For sure, with all our best mates!

To sit, to stare, to wait, for tavern times, to reinstate.

 

We all pray and yell, “This might be Heaven”

 In thought, please God finish, belay this, Hell.

Striding out, unlike week 7.

The gentle relaxing,

 of our enforced stay,

 we must try, and obey.

 

With no permission now, to ask,

to wander freely, about

is our task.

As this weekend, we are all let out!

To ‘App’ and sip and sway.

At a pub, just walk this way!

 

Now, happier hours are here.

We all need, again, in unison to hear,

“Cheers, my dear!”

 

But those others, we toast,

we wonder, are becoming, more hosts?

But bid, this killer.

Good riddance! For today,

as in the glowing brilliance,

of the taverns.

Intoxicated by our mid-year beers,

don’t approach me! For still in fear.

We guzzle, gulp and swig.

Boisterous proclamations, as we jig.

Pealing, chiming in our ears,

Cheers, everyone, Cheers!

 16^th July 2020

Copyright Carole Blackburn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A welcomed guest

By Carol Blackburn

When staring at daybreak it did emerge,

A welcomed guest, I did observe,

to come, and stay briefly, for tea.

I glimpsed him, in my hour of need.

 

The backdrop of daffodils adorned.

That fluttered as to greet him, as well as me.

I knew he would agree, to stay

and meet me for a cup of tea.

My confused mind, I pondered still,

please linger for a cup of tea,

until a closer peek.

Should I dare to step outside,

a chance, filled with fragrant air?

His brothers and sisters are here, too.

For my eyes to swell, to view.

 

He sits proud, prancing, galloping like a horse,

with carefree kinsfolk, on course.

For my eyes to be seized, with his blinding steed.

To count his entourage, too many, indeed.

Who rapidly, mingle in the dawn breeze?

Should I chance, happiness, at last, for me?

 

A stab of danger, his fragrance from his damaging prance.

The overpowering feeling to embrace,

but will I still be alone, if I decide, in haste?

The temptation is high, my resistance is low.

I try to discern; my eyes start to fill and glow.

The predicament of this blinding felon,

If I venture out and join him and his family, will not be heaven.

 

I resist his abundance of kindness, this my unwelcomed guest.

As I sit in the dawn light, behind my windowpane, never to be sad, at all.

They gaze back at me, as it’s my blessed, hay fever.

That came to visit me!

 

 Copyright Carole Blackburn          2020