Haiku
By Peter Woodgate
Small but exquisite
Beautiful nature indoors
My lovely Bonzai
 |
| My Lovely Bonsai |
Friday 8 January 2021
Thursday 7 January 2021
OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE
OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE
By Bob French
It was a cold evening as Private John Hacker, an
east-ender who had joined the army in 1915 and fought right to the end, stood
in the forward observation trench just east of
After a while, John turned to the man. “Private John Hacker Sarge,
“Alex Coventry, Fourth Middlesex. They stood silently looking
out over the land that stretched out into the darkness. It was ten
o’clock on Christmas Eve, 1918 and the war to end all wars had finally come to
a close. All that was left was to mop up the dregs of the German
Army as they made their way home and help the civilian population where ever
they could.
“’Ear Sarge. How long you been at war then, an’ what’s it
like when it ends?”
“Depends. Civies celebrate by dancing in the streets singing
God save the King, others quietly mourn their loss. I can tell you that when
you do gets ‘ome, you’ll notice it.” He paused for a while. “To be
honest, you don’t feel much whilst you out in these bloody trenches with your
mates. I can remember getting ‘ome on leave last year. Me,
the missus and the kids took a while getting used to each other, but it’s the
men who suffer from the trauma of the war ya feel sorry for. Sometimes it takes
them a long time to adjust; some never do. It’s different for each
man and his family.”
“You mean they have terrible memories of the days and months, sitting in
a slime ridden trench just waiting for a shell to blast them to pieces?”
The sergeant nodded. “Ay. You can be the best bloody infantryman in the
battalion. If a shell hits your trench then is
curtains. Jerrie's shell recognizes no one. It just
indiscriminate slaughters.” He paused again as he stared out into
the darkness. “It’s the waiting that does it to the mind.”
“I hear tell that during the retreat back from
Sergeant Coventry turned suddenly, interrupting John. “Listen, Lad, the
British Army never retreats got it. They withdraw until they finds a
better position so they can take the fight back to the bloody Hun.”
John Hacker nodded silently “Sorry sarge, all I was goin’ ta ask was
were those stories about our lads seeing them angles and British bowmen during
the battle of
Sergeant Coventry stared silently out over the dark landscape. Frost had
already settled on the land, blanketing the torn and destroyed features that
nature had taken hundreds of years to create, in a white coat as though making
a statement to all who looked out over the land, that peace had arrived.
“Yeh, I heard about them. When I was having my arm bandaged
at the dressing station some time back, I ‘eard a Medical Officer explaining to
one of the colonels. He said that the men had been on their
chi-strap.” Private Hacker frown at the expression until Sergeant
Coventry paused to explain. “When some men who have had to force march for a
couple of days to get into position, then before they could get a chance to eat
or sleep, theys asked to force march again for a couple more days in blistering
sunshine with little or no water, they tend to have
hallucination. That’s what he was saying the men had suffered from.”
They both stood quietly staring out into the dark for about half an
hour, when Alex Hacker suddenly looked up.
“What is it?”
“I thought I saw something move out there.”
“What direction and how far out Lad?”
“Dunnow Sarge. But I definitely saw something move.”
“Probably the ghosts of Christmas Past.”
Alex Hacker stared at the sergeant for a few seconds too long until the
sergeant spoke in a quiet voice.
“After every war, those whose bodies don’t find their way home, wander
the battle fields on Christmas Eve. They meet up as comrades,
regardless of whose side they fought on. Each year there are a few
who find peace as their bodies are found and repatriated, and those who
continually walk the battlefields waiting to be found.”
John Hacker felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle and he
shivered a little, but not from the cold, but from the unknown.
“Are they out there now Sarge?”
The sergeant didn’t answer straight away. “Depends. You have
to listen real hard to the wind on the barbed wire round about eleven
forty-five on Christmas Eve. If you’re lucky enough, you may hear
them singing Silent Night.”
“How long do they sing for Sarge?”
“Until midnight, then they fades away.
“John Hacker, with wide eyes, stared at the sergeant, then turned to
face the dark expanse and listened. He must have been there for
about ten minutes when softly at first, then a little louder he heard on the cold wind that rushed at him from the east the words of the Christmas Carol of
Silent Night.
“Sarge, I heard it…… Sarge.”
Private John Hacker turned to explain, but he was alone. He
had not heard the sergeant leave, just as he remembered that he never heard the
sergeant arrive.
In a huge hollow created by an artillery shell a few hundred yards from
the forward observation trenches of the British Expeditionary Force, just
outside
“How you been Alfred?”
“Can’t grumble mate.”
“Where’s Harry then?”
Alfred and his friend Harry, had been killed in the first few hours of
the war and just before last Christmas, Harry’s body had been found and had
received a proper military funeral, and as such, had found peace.
“Harry didn’t make it last Christmas, so I am thinking he found peace,
lucky blighter.” Just then another person slid down the wall of the hollow.
“Well if it ain’t my old friend Manfred. How you been
mate.” Before the German sergeant could reply, a young French
officer slipped down beside him.
“Philippe my old son. Good to see ya. Thought for a minute
you weren’t going to make it.”
The French officer smiled and realised that some of his old friends were
no longer present. “Have we lost some of our comrades my friend?”
Manfred nodded. “Yes, but that is good, no?”
They talked for a while about their families and what they would be
doing this Christmas, then they began to sing Silent Night. As they
did, a man slipped over the edge of the hollow and slid down to join his
comrades.
The French officer reached out and shook hands.
“It is good to see you, Alex Coventry. I wish you peace at this Christmas
time mon ami.”
They sang quietly until the night sky grew very dark and
still. It was Christmas day.
As if by magic, it started to snow and as the men sat in the hollow
singing Silent Night, like the snowflakes that floated on the gentle wind, they
slowly faded away.
Christmas story 4 of 4.
Wednesday 6 January 2021
Let’s Hear it for the Buses
Let’s Hear it for the Buses
by Rosemary Clarke
The whole time through
They're usually punctual
Rarely blue
And through it all
Not made a fuss
What would we do
Without a bus
For some of us
They're a lifeline
Those buses try
To be on time
But roadblocks, jams
And other folks
Make driving really
Past a joke
So when you board
Just spare a thought
If in the town
You do get caught
They have dependents
Just like us
So if they're late
Don't make a fuss
Without the buses
We'd be lost
Just help them all
Don't count the cost
It isn't such
A heavy task
Use cleansing gel
And wear a mask
Then they should all
Be very safe
And no one has to
Buy a wreath
For our bus drivers
Everywhere
Look after them
They need our care.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
TIMEWALK (part three of five)
TIMEWALK (part three of five)
by Richard Banks
I return home along the
pedestrian highway. For the first time in a long time, I'm glad to be back in the
here and now. There's no traffic snapping at my heels, and only minutes away is
Greta's cooking and an Egor-free flat. It is not until I am on the landing and
reaching for my key card that my good mood is all but erased by the thought
that nothing may have changed. I open the door, half expecting Egor to be
there. For a few moments logic has deserted me, in another, it is restored.
Greta stands at the oven, obscured by a cloud of steam, but
unmistakeably Greta. Mia is setting the table and two unfamiliar figures, a man
and a woman, sit either side of the window. The woman gets up and greets me as
though we are good friends. She kisses me on the lips. I figure we are more
than good friends. The man stays seated and acknowledges my presence with an
open palm salute. There is no baby and no Eli. I ask where he is and almost
instantly regrets doing so. No one knows him. They look puzzled and I make up
some story about expecting a visitor. We drink our vodka and talk. Everyone is
at ease with each other, we laugh, there is careless talk about politics. No
one suspects any of the others of being a spy, the secrets of the room stay in
the room. During dinner, I discover the woman's name is
“What's happened to
This is crazy. The only change should be Egor. So where are
Hurst and Eli? Why them? Could it be they are links in the same chain? Powerful
people were watching over Egor, Eli as good as said it. Had
Palmer comes to the end of his speech and after the
obligatory standing ovation vacates the rostrum and returns to the VIP seating
at the back of the stage. He resumes his place in the front row and accepts the congratulations of those
either side of him. A familiar figure sitting directly behind him leans forward
to add some words of his own. The weasel face is fuller now, better fed, his
standard-issue denim replaced by a tailored suit. It's Eli, but not the one I
knew. The transmission ends and normal programming resumes. It's a quiz show
called Stick or Slide.
Lew and I have the job of washing the dishes.
Apparently, there's a rota but where it is no one knows. Lew doubts whether it
ever existed, but Tuesday, according to
I express surprise. “Isn't that for officials?”
He gets up from the bench we've been sitting on and wanders
off a few paces. When he faces me again he has a gun in his hand. He tells me
to sit tight and keep smoking. His voice is unchanged; he could still be
talking about music, the weather or any other everyday thing. He says that he
usually shoots his targets without warning. But with me it's different. He
wants me to know that it's nothing personal. I'm a regular guy and he likes me,
but business is business and he isn't allowed to pick and choose. If it was up to him this wouldn't be
happening but evidently, I've pissed off someone important and that's never a good
idea.
“Do you want to finish the cigarette?” he asks.
I nod. It's good stuff and the fact that I'm about to kick
the bucket seems almost irrelevant.
“So who is it that wants me dead? Eli Weisman? Is that who?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Who knows. I get my orders from a
guy who gets his from someone else. Where it starts I don't know. Best not to
know. All I can tell you is that this is about you knowing more than is good
for you. At least, that's the rumour.”
“Did anyone mention Timewalk? How the President shouldn't be
the President because I ...”
“Stop it there!” His demeanour changes. “I don't want to
know and you ain't going to tell me. Now stand up, this has gone on long
enough.”
I do what he says. He aims and the sharp ping of a laser gun
sends him crashing to the ground.
“Are you okay?” My deliverer steps out of the shadows and
stoops down to inspect the hole in Lew's back.
I'm not sure what I am. For a man who's had a near-death
experience I'm feeling foolishly content with the world and my place in it.
Then reality comes rushing back.
“Yeah, yeah I'm okay.” I want to ask her what the hell is
going on, but think better of it. Anything I say is likely to be a mistake. My
angel delight, if that's what she is, is a dangerous girl. Thank the Lord we're
on the same side, whatever that is. Say nothing, let her do the talking. She
does.
“So good old Lew was a government hitman. Who would have
thought it? I wonder how long he's been onto us?”
Her question is a
rhetorical one, so she's not fussed when I don't answer, which is just as well
as the answers, I have related to a reality that doesn't include Cheshire or Lew.
I mean they were probably around shooting people or doing whatever else they
do, but they weren't a part of my life and how I wish it was back, my
discontented but blissfully humdrum life.
I've been silent too long and Cheshire's giving me the sort
of look that makes me think I should be saying or doing something, so to fill
the gap I ask her what she thinks we should be doing. Maybe I'm the one who
should be making the decisions, but somehow that doesn't seem likely. As I
thought, she's not short of a plan.
“We need to get out of here and warn the others, tell them
what's happened.”
As plans go this one suffers from the disadvantage that
anyone breaking the curfew is likely to find themselves on the wrong side of
the police or a criminal gang.
“What if we're being watched?” I say. “Couldn't we send them
a text?”
I return to the flat and open up my locker, where I'm
surmising my gun is. I'm not mistaken, and without stopping to say goodbye, or anything
else, to Greta and Mia, I rush out onto the landing where
“What do you think?” she asks.
What I think is part of a much longer conversation that we
don't have time for now, so I say, “lets roll.” Not only does this sound like
the kind of thing an urban freedom fighter should be saying but involves zero
chance of us being shot; no one's outside because Lew was a lone assassin whose
only mission was to kill me. In order to enhance my credibility, I dash out into
the street waving my gun wildly through 180 degrees and signalling
“Where the hell are they?” he complains. “How can I make a
living if there's no bums.” A voice from within the van says that if they can't
find enough stiffs they will have to take out some still breathing. The other
man concurs and suggests they try their luck by the river. He gets back in the
van and they continue on.
I consider the likely connotations of this expression and
decide that I have no idea what she is talking about. “Down?” I say.
“Yes, get it up.”
“Up?” I say.
She waves her gun at a manhole cover in the middle of the
street. “Get it up, we're going down the sewer.”
This is probably
We step down off the ladder and sink ankle-deep into a fetid
cocktail of sludge and water. The sewer's too small in which to stand, so
Cheshire drops down onto her knees and starts crawling towards what she says is
the main sewer. Not only am I the newest revolutionary in town, but with
Just when I'm
thinking she's lost her way
Copyright Richard Banks
Tuesday 5 January 2021
A Queen for nine days
A Queen for nine days
By Janet Baldey
I
have never admired the month of February, even as a child its dripping skies
depressed my mood. Now, as I sit and
watch murky light creep into my dungeon, which I refuse to compliment by the
name of chamber, I realise at last the dawn has come. The last I will ever see. I could have wished that it were fair June
and that the sky were eggshell slashed by rose but ‘tis the dreariest month of
the year and if I were to look out of my casement there would only be yellow-grey
fog shifting around clouds the colour of ashes.
I have
not slept this long night, my limbs ache and my back screams. Why I could be
sixty and not sixteen. Old age has crept
suddenly upon me but it matters not, for soon I will be at peace. Across the
room, on thin pallets stretched out before the smoky remains of a peat fire,
are my two companions; loyal friends who haven’t faltered in their love for
me. Strange that it is only now that I
experience true kindness and that it comes from those not of my blood. A fit of shivering takes hold of me. It is so cold in this dank cell. Odd those thick stone walls cannot hold the
weather at bay. I long to liven the fire
but do not move lest I wake the sleeping women.
They need their rest – their strength will be tested today. I say nothing aloud but it is as if they hear
me in their sleep for both Mrs Ellen and Mrs Tylney, my dearest friends, stir
as if they are one. They stretch, one turns to the fire and the other to me,
concern settling upon her features.
“My
Lady, have you not slept? You are as
pale as a ghost and as cold too I shouldn’t wonder. One moment and I will boil a mug of hot
water. It will warm you if nothing
else. Come over to the table – look
there are some of your marzipan favourites left.”
I
do as she says and sit nibbling at a sweetmeat; it tastes like charcoal in my
mouth and I fight an urge to vomit. I am
neither hungry nor thirsty but lack the strength to argue.
Mrs
Ellen opens her mouth as if to speak and then freezes. A second later, I hear it. It is the same sound we endured the whole of
the previous day. They have finished my
husband’s scaffold and are starting on mine own. I shut my ears against it and turn to the Bible,
whispering its age-old Latin phrases to myself.
Their sweet cadences soothe and transport me to a place beyond this
hell.
I become aware that my friends have fallen
silent and are gathered at the casement, their faces straining to see. There is a rough roaring that fills my ears
as if it were the sea and I rise from my seat as the two women bow their heads
and begin to pray.
They
part as I reach the window. I know full
well who their prayers are for. My
husband Lord Guilford Dudley has met his fate and I grieve although our
marriage was not of my choice and we were ill-suited to each other. A wave of
sadness passes over me as I reflect that I hardly know what love is. Certainly,
my parents had no regard for me. At best
I was ignored and at worst I was pinched, bullied and forced into a marriage
that I sought not and which has led me to this sorry state. For my part, admittedly I did nothing to earn
their affection for I scorned their way of life, their gambling, their hunting
their fornicating, for it went against the word of the Lord and the teachings
of the Bible for which they had scant regard.
As to my mother, the Lady Frances Brandon, I
cannot remember a single kind word directed towards me, nor any affectionate
gesture only sly pinches, slaps and venomous glances. Whatever I did, it
pleaseth her not and from an early age I learned to creep away whenever I heard
the rustle of her skirts. Frequently, as I hid behind some dusty curtain, the
voices of gossiping servant girls would reach my ears. I learned that my mother was both hated and
feared. In tones sharp with malice she was described as a ‘slut’ and a ‘high
born whore, no better that she should be.’
At the time, those words meant nothing to me but they remain in my
memory and now I wonder, was I indeed my father’s child? For, if not, this might this explain his
complete indifference towards my fate.
Nevermind,
in the absence of my family’s affection something greater took its place. When I
was but four years I wandered into the family chapel and there saw the face of
Jesus for the first time. So much love
shone from his fair face that I was transfixed. At last, I had found my true
Father and one whose love was boundless.
I
am brought back to the present by the grating rumble of iron upon stone and know
very well what that sound portends. My
reluctant husband did not deserve to be parted from his head so young and in
his honour I stand and watch as a cart rumbles its way towards my tower
block. At first, a thin veil of rain shields
my view, then I see it. The body,
shrouded in a sack is strangely deformed and I can bear it no longer. This same
fate awaits myself and all the Latin verses in the world cannot help me
now.
“Oh
Guildford,
At last I compose myself and allow my ladies
to wash my face and dress me in a good dark dress and robe. I pick up my Bible again and am surprised to
see my grip is steady. I have prepared
my speech, each word of which has been carefully chosen and I trust it will
suffice.
I am comforted by the fact that Feckenham will
accompany me. Although not of my faith, he is a good and pious man and I know
he would catch me should I fall. Although failing in his purpose to convert me,
he bears no grudge and we had many interesting discussions. However, not once
did I falter even though conversion may have saved my life, of which I have had
too little. But I have no regrets, for what would my life be if I betray our
Lord?
Now we can only sit in silence, each of us
waiting for what must come and as we wait I realise that the silence is now
complete. They have finished the scaffold. I have not long now. My eyes begin
to brim until I catch sight of the face of our Lord and wonder why I cry. Soon I will be in his arms and suddenly, I am
filled with joy. I grasp the hand of each of my ladies and bid them not to
sorrow for am I not on the brink of something wonderful?
Copyright Janet Baldey
Monday 4 January 2021
BOUNCING BACK
BOUNCING BACK
Peter Woodgate
“Sit down,” he said,
then beckoned me towards a chair
and read
the notes arranged across his desk,
my fate, in words, inscribed upon
the death of yet another tree.
I’d guessed the outcome,
funny we all fear the worst
yet that word still made me choke,
two syllables, it was no joke,
he confirmed that it was “C”.
But…..that preposition gave me hope,
I’d listened to the words, of course,
not fully grasping every one
like sand between my fingers.
One word stood out,
a beacon shining through the dark,
sheltering within my head,
held fast, my thoughts,
remaining still, it lingers.
“Cure,” a simple word,
a word I want to shout out loud
whilst by myself or in a crowd.
A future I once thought was black,
is bright, and I am bouncing back.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
Sunday 3 January 2021
Nothing
Nothing
by Rosemary Clarke
Caring inside
Makes you feel so tired
Crumples your heart
Pulls you apart
Time was when
You could laugh again
Now it's the end
Don't feel you can bend
Someone save you
It's no longer true
The Sun's not there
And you can't care.
For all those suffering or with those they love in Covid take
care.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
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