Whispers and Wanderings

This story was born on a cold Sunday evening in late February. It was the end of a quiet, unproductive weekend, spent alone, doing nothing but watching tv, reading, eating. You know those kind of days - we all have them - idle pointless days.  This particular evening I was joined in my night time ablutions by a fly. It was restless, trapped and seemed to me to be in distress. Taking pity on the little insect, I climbed out of the bath, carefully trapped it under a glass and let it out of the window. As I settled back under the bubbles I found myself wondering what it would be like to talk  with a fly, what it would say if we could communicate. The story, which follows, is how I envisage my the conversation would have gone on that wet, empty evening.  THE PHILOSOFLY  I am sure that the fly didnt mean to end up in my bathroom that evening, but I felt genuinely happy to have it's company. It had been a long and empty winters day and, other than the droplets of rain run...

Below is a homage to William Wordsworth's poem "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" (1802) and also to the poem "London" by William Blake (1794). These are two of my favourite poets from the "Romantic" era.  I have named the poem "Politics". I can't call it an original but I hope you like it ... POLITICS  I wandered lonely through the streets, where voices rise and often meet, In crowded halls where power is sought, and leaders fight with words distraught. The banners waved, the speeches loud, a sea of faces in the crowd, Yet deep inside, a sense of gloom, for truth and trust seem bound in doom. I saw the promises they made, to heal the wounds, to fix the trade. But underneath, the cracks appear, where greed and lies both persevere. I heard the clashing firey cries, as untruths soared to touch the skies, But in the quiet of the mind, a peace was lost, no hope to find. Yet through this chaos if you roam, a thought will rise, like birds that comb...

A SPRING SUNSET  The sun dips low in skies aflame, A quiet close, yet not the same. It spills its gold on field and tree, And leaves a gentle glow with me. The breeze is soft, the colours wide, And though there’s no-one at my side, I smile and breath the evening air, And feel the peace that lingers there. I dream of someone yet to find, A kindred soul, a steady mind. Someone to share this quiet light, And watch this blue sky turn to night. But for today the sky is mine, A gift of colour, calm, a sign. That something good is drawing near, A warmer wind, a voice to hear. 

Never stop believing, Speak your truth, but please be kind. Look for the half full wine glass And leave your cares behind. Stroll slowly through the stormy streets, Let courage guide your way. For on every dark and winding road, You'll find the light someday. So rise again, no matter what. Don’t dwell on what's been lost. The strength you seek is holding near A warmth to thaw the frost.

Born 15th March 1947, had she not been taken from us in 2012, my Mum, Valerie Withnell, would have been 78 years of age today.  It seems like ages since I spoke her full name out loud and it feels so poignant to write it now. However, though she is gone, she is not forgotten. Whenever I meet with family, she is remembered, talked about, laughed about and yes, still cried about too.  Anyway I decided to republish a post I wrote in October 2018 on the 6th anniversary of her death, in commemoration of her. The poem which preceeds the blog was written, by me, for her funeral in 2012 and is titled "You are not here - are you? You are not here. Yet sometimes I hear your voice in the trees And feel your presence in the wind. You are not here. Yet sometimes I see my sister wear your smile Or your face in a crowd. You are not here and yet, when I wake, my first thoughts are of you And you stand by my side through the day. You are not here, but the words that you’ve said give me strengt...

First published - August 03, 2019 In a far off time in a nearby place, on a beach with their bare feet being lapped by the sea and hands clasped together, stand a man and a woman.  They are not old but neither are they young and, though their faces show the lines of life's tribulations, their eyes are still bright.   As I sit on the rock close by, I watch as they talk to each other in hushed tones, as they embrace and as he wipes away a stray tear which rolls down her cheek.  He gently cups her face between his two still strong hands and kisses her tenderly. As she turns her head, I can now see lines of pain etched on her face and, for the briefest moment, the brightness fades from her eyes. He sees it too and takes a sharp intake of breath as his heart seems to stop momentarily.  Still holding hands they turn and begin to walk slowly across the sand. She stumbles and he quickly adjusts his arms to take the weight of her failing body and he whispers words of com...