THE LONG GOODBYE

 

By Peter Woodgate

 

They turn, depart, into the mist,

A fog that doesn’t hide the shape,

Thoughts, however, sink from view

Behind a cloak, a shroud, a cape.

They are there but cannot share

Quotidian actions day to day

Causing distress, anxiety

And concealed visions of dismay.

They are lost and yet remain

Your love obstructed by a shield,

A barrier that blocks your care,

Normality to them concealed.

But worst of all, a timeless wait

When hope for change will never be,

When all the love and care there is

Will be, shut out, eternally.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate 16/7/22

 

 

 

 

I shall miss this.

 LOOKING BACK WHEN THE TIME COMES

By Bob French

The silence of the night, so deep and dark, gradually changes, slowly at first by the faint shimmers of cream and yellow spreading across the distant horizon, then the gentle chorus of bird song gradually rising from all corners to a cacophony.  Then steadily the sky is filled with a million colours of the rainbow as a new day is born.  I shall miss this.

To hear the sound of young children laughing and playing in the parks; on the river banks and in the fields.  Happiness in abundance, with no care of fear, threat or danger as they live their young innocent lives, watched by their minders, parents and loved ones, who all look on them with love and contentment as they grow.  I shall miss this.

The sound of the river as it gently glides idly by, creating a sense of peace enjoyed by those who take the time to sit and listen.  Its glistening surface changing colour as the sky above moves across us all, dictating how the land we live in endures and grows.  The smells of the fields and the hard-working animals as they put their shoulder to the task.  I shall miss this.

The winding paths that lead through pastures green and trees so tall; the leaves that gently move in the cool afternoon breeze, giving comfort to those who choose to rest in the shade.  The air that carries the scent of the wild honeysuckle and jasmine that grows in places that only bring pleasure and a sense of tranquility.  I shall miss this.

The changing weather that heralds the seasons of our being on this earth, the meeting of families and friends to celebrate old memories and good times.  The young, proudly showing off to their grandparents and relatives whose time on this earth is drawing to a close, seeing hope in their young eyes and a wish for a better future.   Their young and innocent faces; so much to live for. So much to learn.  I shall miss this.

To friends who endured the hardships and comradery of serving in places far from our home shores, to those we remember, but no longer here.  The people who shared their love and friendship and the times we had in those mad, reckless, dangerous days, thinking that tomorrow may not come.  Remembering the women who gave their hearts and souls to a belief that one day things would change, to the tears and heartbreak that always followed.  They will always be in my mind.  I shall miss this. 

Feeling the temperature of the day slowly changing as the light fades, bringing to a close of another day.  The fading birdsong and rustling of the trees high on the distant hills slows to a still and birds and animals move to silence, seeking a place to sleep in the coming night. The black velvet sky high above stretching far away to the distant horizon speckled with diamonds, then silence.  

I shall miss this.

Copyright Bob French

 

 IF ONLY... 

By Rosemary Clarke 

You feel it every day

His touch upon your skin

It's with you, come what may

Where true horror begins.

He thinks it's just a game

And it's a lot of fun

But you don't feel the same,

The damage now is done.

There's an image many seek

Of a good time naughty lass'

But she'll never exist

In age or race or class

What many take for flirting

Are teenagers learning sex

But many leave them hurting

Feeling that their time is next.

So if you do love someone

Look straight into their eyes

And try to learn how they may feel,

don't keep on with the lies!

We all have feelings, all have blood

And we should be set free

Not trampled in an ugly mud

As many times we'll be.

For vileness echoes to the past

Where bad things often live

Could it be someday, that at last

We'll start to really live?

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 CLOUDS

By  Peter Woodgate

 

Like human souls

They drift across the sea of life,

Taking the shapes of happiness and love,

At other times of sadness and of strife.

Whilst wearing white they dance

and catch the sun,

at other times they mimic all our fears,

they turn from white to grey, then black

and like us souls, we find it ends in tears.

I think, perhaps, these clouds are souls

Of Those who left the earth

To dwell in higher places,

Looking down on us and knowing all

Our weaknesses, our faults, also our faces.

Should that be so, I hope that when I go,

I will enjoy the sights and sounds

Whilst keeping tabs on those

Who, I suppose,

Have wronged me on this Earth,

Then I shall rain, with force, upon them,

With great pleasure and with mirth.

 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Tylywoch ~ 20

 Tylywoch ~ 20  Elementals 1 

By Len Morgan

   Wilden cast his mind back thirty years when the seekers arrived in his village for tribute of cattle and initiates.   They chose indiscriminately, taking one in five children aged thirteen.   He was torn away from his loving family who assured him it was a great honour to be chosen, but he did not want to go.   He smiled with hindsight, as he recalled the tears.   But, his wants were of little moment to Bedelacq the one true god.   He became part of a herd of 30 young men driven, from town to town, like cattle.   The herd increased at every stop.   At night they were haltered, and by day forced to run non-stop, behind the cattle and horses.  The young women were treated differently; they were placed in three enormous box wagons following the procession.   At evening, food and water were placed beneath the canvas flaps, at either side of the wagons, in the morning the flaps were opened and the food was gone.   He recalled envying those well-fed and pampered prospective ‘brides of Bedelacq’.   Whilst they, and the cattle, would at best become slaves to his brides.   They survived, at far below subsistence level, they grew lean and mean on gruel supplemented with anything they could find, catch, or steal.   They took from those weaker than themselves, and those who failed to survive were decapitated and bled into large bronze receptacles and stripped of their flesh.   The survivors ate well on such occasions and never questioned the source of their good fortune.   The charred bones were plainly evident in the smouldering ashes of the campfires at dawn.   They headed steadily north, towards the mountains, he noted, after months of travelling, they no longer added to their complement, from the towns they passed.   New additions would have been eaten alive by the ravenous, wild-eyed, pack of wolf children, who had replaced the docile innocents of a few months earlier.   They had been systematically stripped of all dignity, compassion, and humanity.  

Now gaunt and hungry, they were prepared to fight to the death without provocation.   Even the Seekers became wary of them, attaching restraints at night and going around in pairs.   When the Priest Leader judged them to be ready; their numbers reduced from fifty to twenty; they could be herded to Blutt Central.   To him, they were merely the survivors. The raw material or distillate, the elemental substance that might produce half a dozen acolytes, of whom, one in a hundred might become a priest.   The remainder would simply be fuel expended on the gods work. 

The young females, as he now knew fared no better.   Through out their conversion, and transformation into ‘brides of Bedelacq – the one god’ they would have been aware of how the boys were treated and been envious.   The distillation of twenty females to just four had been both slow and painful.   The survivors considered themselves to be the unlucky ones. 

He recalled being herded into a corral with seven other acolytes, cold, naked, dirty, ravaged with hunger and thirst.

On either side young women either viewed them dispassionately or jeered derisively.   A group of young women approached them fastening collars around their necks, leaving them on display for public inspection.

Wilden toyed unconsciously with the thin leather thong around his throat, symbolic of the thick studded collar he’d received that day.

He remembered the young woman approaching him and attaching her leash to his collar. 

“Down!” she’d commanded, jerking sharply on the leash, bringing him involuntarily to his knees.   “Good Boy,” she said without emotion, patting him on the head like a hound, and placing a chunk of raw meat into his mouth.   “Eat!” she commanded.   He recalled the taste; it was the most delicious food he’d eaten since home; a distant memory.   She handed him a carafe of liquid, “Drink!”   He obeyed; it had a slightly saline taste, and faint yellowish tinge, but was far better than the earthy ditch water he’d been forced to drink in order to survive the journey.   There was something added to the water, something with an addictive quality, because to this day he still required a little of that liquid on a regular basis, always from the hands of that same young woman.   He smiled once again, recalling her long serious face, those large sienna eyes with dark dilated pupils.  Forceful, piercing and unblinking, those eyes gazed at him and through him without fear or pity.   He recalled a cool wayward breeze ruffling her long straight black shoulder length hair, and wondered how it dared to do so.   He gazed in wonder at those moist dark pink lips, slightly parted, revealing strong white teeth.   She stood motionless before him as if inviting his worship.   He was acutely aware of her scent, the sweet smell of her breath and skin.   He lowered his gaze in shame, to her dainty delicate feet, defiled by dust from the compacted earth floor of the compound. 

“Clean them!” she commanded as if reading his mind.

He knelt before her.   She raised her left foot to the level of his face.   He brushed it rhythmically with his hands then poured water from the carafe massaging it gently. Finally, he dried it on his now long brown hair, wiping her sole on his thigh.   She raised her other foot and he repeated his act of obeisance.  

“They are still dirty,” she said in slow metronomic syllables, “clean them!”  

He lowered his head licking and wiping them until finally, she appeared satisfied. 

“Come!” she commanded jerking simultaneously on the leash, bringing him to his feet.   She stood head and shoulders above him; tall slim and sinuous.   Where she walked he followed, she never cast a backward glance, so supremely confident was she of her control over him.  Some smiled as she passed; had she but glanced back she would have known the true measure of her power over him.   He prayed she wouldn’t look, as he fought to control his wayward member…  His prayer was answered.    

Throughout that first meeting, he was conscious of a voice within his head.  Calmly Reassuring, soothing him, counselling him to obey her; so that no harm would befall him.

She led him, through a maze of corridors, to a door one amongst many.  

She made unfamiliar hand gestures before the door causing it to open.   

“I am third hand maid to Mawgwrr the Premier Bride,” she announced proudly.   “You are my slave, and will call me mistress…”

“What is your name mistress?” he asked.

She was not fazed and didn’t raise her voice at his great impudence.   “My name is mistress Glamhorten.   I will overlook you speaking to me without being asked because I have not yet instructed you in mistress-slave etiquette.   You are allowed to speak only when asked.   Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replied at once.

She carefully selected a thin whippy cane from a sheaf of similar implements standing upright in a tall wicker bin beside the door.  

“When not engaged in an activity at my request, you will kneel, head bowed before me or beside me as directed,” she said in a calm quiet voice.   “The answer I required was YES MISTRESS!!” she spoke sharply for emphasis, punctuating the syllables with vicious blows to his back.  

He winced as the full sting of those powerful biting blows exploded in his mind, milliseconds later.  

‘Be still, do not react, be grateful for this lesson in behaviour,’ said the voice within him. 

“Yes, Mistress.” He said in a servile voice, through streaming eyes, before she could follow up with further blows.

She took a hank of his hair and slowly wiped the cane on it, before replacing it in the wicker bin.   She straddled a back-less chair and clapped her hands twice in rapid succession.  A lean, naked young male appeared, prostrating himself before her, kissing her feet, prior to kneeling by her side.

She patted him on the head without a glance, “My Slave!” she said

“Until death mistress,” he answered, completing the ritual.

“This is your replacement,” she told him dispassionately.   “Teach him his duties well, if he fails it will be your fault, you will receive the punishment, not he!”

“You sleep there!” she said to Wilden, pointing to a narrow flat wicker basket covered by a thin grey threadbare blanket.   “Sleep on your belly until the blood dries, I do not want my blanket soiled.  

“You! With me!” she commanded the older boy, “I have need of your serpentine tongue…”

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Tomorrow

 

By Rosemary Clarke

 

I look up into the sunlit sky

And know that all is well

The people of Ukraine though

Are all living in Hell.

Their skies are filled with missiles

Their lives a ruin and pain

Why does the world do nothing

While this tragedy remains?

Why is nobody helping them

By closing up the skies

The schools and homes and hospitals

Why are they left to die?

We are all saying ' we can't do' 

What gives us the right?

This is a form of genocide

It isn't just a fight!

And after Ukraine what will be

The fate of all around

Is Finland next, which country die

If this is not improved?

And where are others in this fight

With all the pain and sorrow?

'It won't be us!' It won't be yet

But who's to know tomorrow? 

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 CHANCE MEETING

Peter Woodgate

Tony was standing on the platform, he was on his own and it had started to snow. “What am I doing here,” he muttered and started to walk towards the exit gate.

As he did so a smartly dressed woman entered the station and walked slowly towards him. The light was poor but as she passed under one of the station lights he caught sight of her face and immediately thought, I think I must know her, her face is very familiar.

As she passed Tony, she gave him a smile before walking up to the waiting room turning the handle, and pushing open the door.

Tony glanced round to view the information board and noticed the next train was not due for 45 minutes, blast, he thought. Of course, they have recently changed the timetable I might as well join the lady in the waiting room.

As he pushed the door open he was met by a pleasant odour, obviously emanating from the attractive lady sitting in the corner. Tony studied her face for a moment before walking over and sitting down near enough to talk without raising his voice. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, I seem to recognize you but at a loss to remember your name, are you local?

“Oh yes, she replied, that’s probably why you recognize me, I am on my way to my sisters, she lives in the next village up the line, I visit her frequently just to catch up on all the gossip, you know what us women are like” she added with a smile.  

Tony was about to continue the conversation when they heard an announcement, “owing to signal failures there will be no further service this evening.”

“Oh no,” Tony gasped, “do you know of any good B&B’s looks like I’m stuck for the night. Sorry” he added.  “I should introduce myself I’m Tony.”

She smiled at him before replying. “My name is Lorraine and I am pleased to meet you” she extended her arm and shook Tony’s hand. Well, I won’t be visiting my sister now and I only live 5 minutes walk from here so I could offer you a sofa for the night. Tony looked surprised before replying, “well, I don’t want to put you out but that sounds extremely tempting.”

After a short walk, they arrived at the house and Lorraine inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. As Tony entered the hallway a sudden feeling of de ja vous swept over him and he shivered as Lorraine led him into the kitchen speaking as she did so.

“I think we should have a drink, tea or wine?” she smiled and held up a bottle of red wine. They made their way to the lounge where Tony was shown a nice comfortable chair and the drinking commenced. After the second bottle was consumed Lorraine stood up suddenly and started undoing the buttons on her blouse, “I am a married woman you know” she spoke softly,

“well, I am a married man,” he replied, “but what the hell.”

It was sometime later, as they lay in bed that Lorraine leaned over and whispered in Tony’s ear,

“and how was that for you then?” Tony replied with a smile on his face.

“That was great, I am really glad we decided to consult the sex therapist, perhaps next time we should meet on a river cruise.”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate