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Thursday 31 October 2013

Trout With Herbs & Lemon

Recipe for: TROUT with HERBS & LEMON

Ingredients:

  • Two or four trout fillets
  • 2 oz butter
  • Handful mixed fresh herbs (parsley, chives, thyme, tarragon – whatever is to hand)
  • One lemon
  • Salt & freshly-ground pepper
  • Little olive oil
 Method:

  1. Heat the oven to 190C/ 175C fan.
  2. If the fish is/ are whole, remove heads, tails & main backbone (or get fishmonger to do it for you).  You want two/ four neat fillets so that the fish can be flattened
  3. Oil a large baking sheet
  4. Put the fish on the baking sheet, skin-side down
  5. In a bowl, mix together the finely-chopped herbs with the butter & salt/ pepper
  6. Liberally spread the mixture over the fillets
  7. Squeeze the lemon over a small sieve to catch the pips, to let the juice run all over the fish
  8. Bake in the oven for about 20/ 25 minutes depending on size/ thickness of fillets
 What else you need to know:

  1. Serve with a simple fresh green salad and some crusty bread to mop up any juices


Wednesday 30 October 2013

Endless Day

Endless Day

Waking early, escaping hours of restless sleep
Shuffling down stairs in threadbare slippers
And faded dressing gown
To face another tedious day
She makes tea in the old brown pot
And sits at the empty kitchen table
Staring out through the cobwebbed window

Lambent rays of dawn
Flirt with the dark horizon
Struggling to get another daytime under way
Only slowly lighting the cloudy sky
Heavy with coming rain

The silence sits oppressive
And darkness gathers round
She ignores the gently dripping tap
As she drinks a second cup
And smokes a cigarette
Reflecting on the empty day ahead
The hours yet to be traversed
The quiet to be endured

Restlessly wandering from room to room
Sometimes standing, shiftless
Rearranging tasteless ornaments
Long since collected
Now unloved, undusted, unwanted
But something to do with her hands
To keep them from trembling

Sometimes sitting down again
Leafing through year-old magazines
Loathe to listen, minute after lingering minute
To the quiet ticking of the clock
Among the clutter on the mantel
Its hands seeming not to move
As the endless hours stretch away
For another long day with little purpose

The deserted hall, no-one to call
No letters in the mailbox
And a phone that never rings
Staring into empty space
Alone, with time to kill


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tuesday 29 October 2013

Coffee Shop

Coffee Shop

They come in waves
An ebb and flow of clientele
In and out, like a restless sea
Seeking favourite seats and corners
In the back, or near the big window
The regular morning ritual
The daily caffeine fix of choice
With standard order and loyalty card

The comforting, constant soundtrack
Of the steaming machine
The harsh grinding of Fairtrade beans
And gurgling of scalding water
Brewing long shots of espresso
Americano, Mocha and Latte
The counter filled with cakes and chocolates
And the clanking of spoons in cups and mugs
Clattering in saucers carefully carried away

Singles sit quietly, stirring froth
Peering into phones or computers
Living out their different lifestyles
Absorbed in the not-here, not-now
Thoughtful, contemplating
Playing with the sugar sachets
Or flipping idly through the papers

Ladies in twos and threes
Hustling and bustling
Amid bulging shopping and handbags
Between crowded tables
Dropping voices to a whisper
Through confidential sections
Of their general gossiping
Chatting and chattering
Lingering till lunchtime
Before suddenly rushing away
To meet a pressing engagement

Then the unexpected pause
A reduced coming and going
The noise dropping down to a whisper
Leaving chairs at awkward angles
A rare respite in operations
The barrista sighs and wipes his brow
And a waitress clears the tables
Wiping surfaces as she goes
Behind the receding tide
Of floating humanity


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Monday 28 October 2013

Draught In The Passage

Draught In The Passage

I understand you sometimes have to wait
Because they’re not yet ready
The nurses and the doctors
Who must assemble what they need
The sterile instruments
And fill out all the paperwork
Before they can take a look at you
But why must I sit or stand
Out here in the corridor
Amid the antiseptic smells
And the wheeling of trolleys
The cool air creeping underneath
The flimsy floral curtain
Which hangs between me and the world
My rustling paper gown
Flapping open at the rear
To allow them easy access
To all my private parts?

There’s no dignity dressed like this
Procedure-ready
Prepped and medicated
No privacy when I move
Naked within my wrapper
Exposed to all and sundry
Who might observe me from behind
And gaze in silent wonder
At what I might be hiding
The goose-bumps growing bigger
From the anticipation
The suspense of waiting
But mostly from the draught
That blows into the passage


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Sunday 27 October 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 27th October 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Bromham has been in a frantic social whirl this week. The daughter of the bloke that runs the chip shop on the High Street had her baby christened at St Knickerless, the Bromham Parish Church and Drop-In Centre.  Much speculation had surrounded who would be named as the child’s god-parents, but this turned out to be rather predictable in the end when seven members of her own family were named – Peter Piglet, Paul Piglet, Jock ‘One-eyed’ Piglet, Penelope Piglet, Priscilla Piglet, Peregrine Piglet and Tom ‘Shagger’ Piglet, the latter being strongly suspected of being the child’s biological father.

2.       A row has broken out between the owners of the village shop and the Post Office as to which of them is intercepting the phone calls of the other.  Angela Piglet, owner of the Village Stores, has accused Barratt Brahma, Manager of the Post Office of intercepting her phone calls, particularly those involving large orders for envelopes and other stationery.  However, a simpler cause may have been discovered on Wednesday when the man from the local phone company was seen outside the local phone cabinet scratching his head, looking into the tangle of wires, and muttering something incomprehensible about spaghetti.  After experimenting with a few connections, he then drove off in his van.  Since then no-one in Bromham has been able to receive the correct phone calls.  The village primary school has been inundated with cold calls from companies trying sell them stair-lifts, pensions and funeral plans.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Saturday 26 October 2013

What Will Our Children Say?

What Will Our Children Say?

What will our children say
When they look back at us,
From the vantage-point of their tomorrows,
Towards their empty yesterdays?
Will they understand our lack of action,
The time we wasted with indecision,
And let things drift from year to year,
Missing all those warning signs?

What will our children say
When they see that we could not agree,
And how we fought amongst ourselves,
Bickering, procrastinating,
Caught in many minds,
Snared in short-term self-interest,
And how we dithered and deliberated,
As things got worse and worse,
Just calmly carrying on,
Always hoping for the best?

What will our children say
When they look at what we did,
How we didn’t even try to change things,
But carried on regardless,
With pure blind faith in new technology,
Looking blithely to the future,
To provide the answers
That we could not find today?

What will our children say
About our undirected course,
With no hand upon the tiller,
Drifting towards oblivion,
Worrying only about the cost?
How will they ever comprehend
How we let things get this bad,
Used up all Earth’s bounty,
Exhausting our lonely planet,
Leaving a dirty, dried-up cinder
To circle round the Sun?


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Friday 25 October 2013

Bit On The Side

Bit On The Side

I said that I could never do this -
Give myself up to words and waiting, wishes and whispers
Which disappear like mist in the morning
When I awake alone
With the sun rising, poking its light through blinds
Hastily drawn last night

I said that you should not come
Whenever the mood just took you
Leaving her alone with alibis
And feeble excuses
To sneak your way to me
Turning your key in my lock
To find me always alone, ever-waiting,
Desperately pleased to see you
Aching for your smile, your touch, your kiss

I said I would not live like this
Sharing short hours of stolen time
Mistress of your hidden desires
Fed by promises, endearments
And guilty late-bought offerings
A life unnaturally discreet
Behind closed doors
A kept pet within a cage
Your plaything, what you will

I said I could not exist alone
Caught between blind hope and cold despair
Bereft at your every going
Angry at each desertion
Hanging on, spoiled but tortured
Our coupling in the early evenings
No longer love nor lust, but only longing
For you to stay with me and stroke my face
And hold me through till morning

I said that I should live a life more normal
Being with you all the time
Together every day
Not just when you can steal away
To scramble all my feelings
And tangle all my sheets


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Thursday 24 October 2013

Quince Jelly

Quince Jelly 

Ingredients:
  • 2 lbs of quinces
  • 1 lemon (just the juice, sieved)
  • white granulated sugar (or preserving sugar which has added pectin)
  • water to cover
Method:

  1. Wash and roughly chop the quinces (no need to peel, de-core or de-pip) and place in a heavy bottomed saucepan.
  2. Barely cover with water. Bring to the boil and simmer gently with a lid on until soft. If the quinces are very firm this could take several hours. Check it every now and then and add more water if necessary.
  3. Pour the cooked fruit through sterilised muslin into a large clean bucket or bowl. The muslin is often referred to as a “jelly bag”. I find it easier to line a large plastic sieve with the muslin. This clips neatly onto the top of a clean bowl/ bucket. The sieve is then covered with a clean tea cloth to protect against flies.
  4. Leave the jelly bag to drip overnight (or about 12 hours).  Do not be tempted to squeeze the juice through, or the jelly will be cloudy.
  5. Measure the juice the next day.
  6. Pour the juice into a deep heavy bottomed saucepan and add 1lb/454g of white granulated sugar for each 1pt/570ml of juice.
  7. Add the lemon juice.
  8. Heat the juice and sugar, gently stirring from time to time, so as to make sure that that all the sugar has dissolved before bringing the liquid slowly to the boil.
  9. Continue to boil for about 10 minutes before testing for a set. (A set is achieved when a small spoonful of liquid, placed on a fridge-cold saucer & allowed to cool for a minute wrinkles up when you push it gently with your finger). Test every 3 to 5 minutes until setting point is reached. Tossing in a nugget of butter towards the end will reduce the frothing that can occur.
  10. When jelly has reached setting point pour into warm sterilised jars using a funnel and ladle. (Sterilise jars by washing in hot soapy water, then rinsing in clean water, followed by drying with a clean tea-towel, followed by keeping warm in a very low oven).
  11. Cover immediately with plastic lined screw top lids or waxed disks and cellophane tops secured with a rubber band. If you don’t think that the jelly has set properly, you can reboil it the next day. The boiling reduces the water in the jelly.
  12. Label when cold and store in a cool, dark place, away from damp.

Wednesday 23 October 2013

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine
To keep me from falling down
When I struggled to stand and walk
Unaided by your side
Stumbling through my early steps

I felt your hand gently touching mine
To stop me losing heart
And keeping faith with all my dreams
When I doubted my own intentions
Finding my uncertain way to you

I took your hand close within mine
To show that we would be forever joined
You and me against the world, my love
Words and promises and rings
An affirmation of intentions

I held their hands when they were small
So they should know that I was there
Other lives that looked like mine
But better, brighter in every way
My hopes for a greater future

And when I could no longer move
Nor leave this deathly cancer bed
Your hand held tightly onto mine
And you talked and talked into the night
So that I should never be alone


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tuesday 22 October 2013

Powerless

Powerless

Empty calm descends
Upon the cooling house
As motors cease to hum
Falling into solemn stillness
Sudden TV and radio silence
Reduced to muted dumbness
With regular bulletins hushed
Amid the sudden rush
To join the armistice
Of unexpected quiet
Within the working day

Juice no longer in the wires
Plastic plugs and sockets
Stand redundant
Clunky, hard, dead things
Lying there unused, discarded
Their life-force deserted
Retreated down the circuit
Beyond a small switch far away

No longer any motive power
Nor easy electronic force
No pumps or ticking timers
No clocks or blinking lights
Alarms disabled, motors crippled
Equipment and components
Lie unmoving
As if awaiting further instructions

Then ensues a deathly hush
Through cold and empty rooms
Broken only by a ticking mantel clock
Driven by its tensioned spring
Beating out the passing time
In the darkened gloom
As the quiet settles
Heavy like a layer of dust
With almost a presence of its own


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Monday 21 October 2013

Sea and Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind the flapping wind-breaks
On creaking candy-stripe deck-chairs
Naked toes wriggling in the cold damp sand
Watching children play among their castles
The long, chilly day stretches far ahead
From sea-wall to a distant horizon
               
Optimistic hats and sun-tan lotions
Jostling with novels and newspapers
In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons
While damp, gritty bath-towels
Shield the modesty of shivering teen-agers
Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky
Perhaps portending later rain
Before the distant tide
Slowly comes back in again
Its waves sliding up the chilly beach
Erasing empires built along the shore
And enforcing the reluctant retreat

The last desultory donkey-rides taken
Flags and windmills rescued from the water
Before climbing to the esplanade
And a long promenade along the windy pier
To reach the lonely telescope
Which points towards the blackened sea

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper
Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups
The sharp and pungent waft of vinegar
Competing with the fresher smell of ozone
While seeking shelter against the elements
On the seats behind the life-boat station

And later, licking ice-cream and candy-floss
While steadily feeding slot machines
In glittering amusement arcades
Where noisy one-armed bandits
Devour great piles of tanners
Until, bored and poorer
Driven outside again
To stroll, wind-driven
Back along the Front
To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

Reading every comic card
On the twirling wire stands
Before games of football in the park
Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt
Before sauntering back slowly
To kill more time, before facing high tea
And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Sunday 20 October 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 20th October 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       In a blow to the Government’s much-heralded flagship education policy, Bromham’s Agricultural Literal Learning School (BALLS) was forced to close this week, following an inspection visit by Ofsted.  In an often damning report, the school was criticised for:
o   Forcing male pupils to wear flat caps in class;
o   Insisting on baler twine being used to hold up pupils’ trousers;
o   Separating students in class on the basis of the number of toes they had;
o   Teaching only in the local Oo-aar dialect.

2.       And in a shock announcement, the Bromham Power Company has announced that gas and electric prices will rise by more than the rate of inflation.  Village residents were reduced to walking up and down the High Street, shaking their heads in amazement and disappointment.  This latest blow comes hot on the heels of recent discoveries that:
o   Bears have been defecating in the local woods;
o   The Pope is indeed a Catholic;
o   The cheque is in the post.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Saturday 19 October 2013

When I Was Older

When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense
And everything kind of hung together
In a way I no longer understand
Life was serious, dull and boring
In a black and white sort of way
But it got me through the years
To get me where I am today

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was
Where I was going, what I was doing
And who was near and dear to me
I played the role of responsible adult
Father to my children, husband and provider
Worker, money-maker, decision-taker
Lover, and sometime man of leisure

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant
What mattered, and how to get things done
I knew who you were then
Why you left me and where you had gone
I hid my small box of cares and worries
And I kept the lid tightly closed
So that you should never know

But now I’m young again, things have changed around
The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out
Everything is there in full colour
I find that I have nowhere I need to go
I need not make any great decisions
Except what I should have for my dinner
And what time I’d like to go to bed


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Friday 18 October 2013

Green Is The Colour

Green Is The Colour

Green
Is the colour of the plastic
From which they make the folder
Which they give you when they tell you
That your life is about to change
And which you hold on to
As you try to grasp the meaning
Of all the words you’re hearing

Green
Is the colour of the booklets
The leaflets and the pamphlets
Which they hand to you one by one
To put inside your folder
And build up your own collection
Of cancer information
And unwanted reading material


Green
Is the colour of the typeface
Of the jaunty letter-font
The co-ordinated colour-coded logo
That someone once designed
To make it bright and accessible
For each new unwilling owner
Of this convenient carry-case

With all the colours in the rainbow
The broadest palette of shades and hues
Who ever thought that green
Might suit oncology?
Is it meant to be a positive signal?
An encouragement to carry on?
Why not choose blue, the colour of depression?
Or the blackness of deep despair?
Why not a sickening yellow?
Or the fiery red of anger?
Why not the pink of healthy tissue
Or a cautious amber?

I don’t think this is what they meant
When they asked me if I had any questions

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013


Thursday 17 October 2013

Fruit-flavoured Gins & Vodkas

Recipe for: VODKAS & GINS (fruit-flavoured)
                  
Ingredients:

  • 1-2 lbs sloes, bullaces, damsons or plums (or sour cherries)
  • 6 oz sugar
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 1 litre (or more) of vodka or gin

Method:


  1. wash the fruit, but no need to stone
  2. prick every fruit with a fork & place into a clean demi-john
  3. add the sugar & vanilla extract
  4. cover with the vodka or gin
  5. stopper the demi-john with a bung or air-lock
  6. shake the demi-john vigorously until the sugar is dissolved
  7. place demi-john in a cool dark place, label with contents & date
  8. shake the contents every few days for the next 3 months
  9. when the liqueur is ready, remove the fruit (depending on what it is, this can be eaten in small quantities as a VERY boozy sweet with cream/ ice-cream/ yoghurt)
  10. filter the remaining contents through several layers of muslin & a funnel into another demi-john.  You may need to do this more than once, until you have a fairly clearish liquid.  Try to let the liquid drain through itself, rather than squeezing, as this will help to keep the liqueur clear rather than cloudy
  11. then decant again into sealable bottles. 
  12. label the bottles

Wednesday 16 October 2013

The Shedding Of Skins

The Shedding of Skins

And what of the future
And a life that differs from the past?
To cast off the old restriction
And peel away the papery epidermis
A mere shadow of what once was
And things that went before
The thin constriction of many years
An outgrown palimpsest
A dry and crispy cracking
Of empty outer skin
The rough leavings
And abandoned bindings
Simple and superfluous
That can be left behind
Without a single thought
And to emerge renewed
Supple and slippery
Glistening smooth
A new creature escaping
Now bright-featured in appearance
But far more changed within


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tuesday 15 October 2013

Clown

Clown

Your appearance startles me
As I gaze upon your features
A painted face with rictus smile
Grease-paint make-up
Wide-eyed, red-nosed
The wig, the hat, the jacket
Huge shoes and trousers
Ill-fitting coloured garb
Exaggerated, extravagant and eccentric

Your gestures make me flinch
Wild anarchic actions
Expansive and grotesque
Slapstick prat-falls, tumbling
To the crash of cymbals
Fool, comedic fall-guy
Miming pain and sorrow
A parade of emotions
And silent appeals to the comic gods

The crowd’s reaction does not move me
Their laughter growing
Building to crescendo
Faces smile-illuminated
Marvelling at the timing
Of the crazy performance
Within the circus ring
Watching Whiteface and Auguste
Conducting clowning chaos

But your deadpan muzzle leaves me cold
Your sinister expression
Raises phobic fear and terror
My voice sticks in my throat
To me you are no joking jester
Nor clowning priest of mirth
But a chill reminder
Of a childhood nightmare
A presence from dark anarchic night


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Monday 14 October 2013

Autumn Damp

Autumn Damp

Wet lawns await their final cut
Their long uneven shocks of grass
Harbouring windfalls
Of soft decaying garden fruit
Whose juices ooze a sweetness
Which perfumes the air
Their undersides brown and rotting
Still home to lazy drunken wasps

The droppings and sheddings
From near-naked trees
Branches standing stark against the sky
Of the early misty morning
Among the mulching mess of leaves
Shading grey then into black
A fading dark, damp mush
Food for insects and work for worms
Hunkering down into foul and stinking mess
And the rich, rank stench of dying

The rambling brambles tangling
Still scratching, snagged with over-ripened berries
Which moulder and stain the fingers
Before falling, bruised and broken
Down among bedraggled nettles
Strewn heavy with dew-droplets
And in the darker shady places
Sprout musky mushrooms
And toxic toadstools
The only livid growths
Amongst the colours of death

And now we lose the light
The chill of shorter days
Sending shivers through the cobwebs
Soggy silver hunting nets
Strewn dewy amongst the weeds
And auburn leaf-fall
The occasional flash of gold or red
Between the darker shades
Of the grim-hued palette
Of the tired ground
As it awaits the swirling fogs
That will come to embrace it
And bring the freezing kiss of Winter


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Sunday 13 October 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 13th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 13th October 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The mid-week cup game at Bromham Casuals’ ground had to be called off on Wednesday night when it transpired that the entire pitch had disappeared.  A subsequent police investigation revealed that deer had covered up the white lines, mice had nested on the field, foxes had dismantled the main stand, weasels had removed the dugouts, kestrels had flown away with the corner-flags, and voles had stolen the match-ball.  However, the main crime was that badgers had moved the goalposts

2.       Bromham Parish continues to lurch from crisis to crisis as there is no-end to the financial shut down.  The Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP) have continued to block efforts by the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP) to get the Parish Council to vote through the budget for the coming year.  As a result, the gate to the cemetery continues to be locked, and no-one has picked up the litter in the High Street for nearly a week.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Saturday 12 October 2013

Waterworks

Waterworks

Is this what it has come down to?
To sit here with the others
In a crowded clinic waiting room
Full of failing bodies
Dotted among the rows of wipe-clean chairs
A parking lot of walking-frames and sticks
All here for the same reason
Worrying signs in their water-works
A range of plumbing problems
For the doctors to diagnose and fix

And nurses come and go
With their files and folders
Discreetly carrying urine samples
And the bladder test results
From patients in the toilets
Peeing and passing
Measuring inputs and outputs
After drinking endless cups of water

It’s a part of getting older
Politely called urology
But there’s little dignity
In such a personal problem
And little comfort
In the unbidden thought
That it might be cancer come to call
Or a breaking down of organ function
Perhaps another milestone
Towards journey’s end


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Friday 11 October 2013

Badgers Moving The Goalposts

Goalposts (following the excuse given by Government’s Environment Minister Owen Paterson as to why the badger cull had not been a success)

There’s something odd going on in the night,
And I don’t think it’s the action of ghosts,
I think I might have rumbled the culprits,
‘Cos it’s the badgers what’s moving the goalposts.

They’re fed up of being cast as the bad guys;
They say that they’re not even criminal types,
But they’re being pushed into a corner,
Just because of their black and white stripes.

They’re not playing for Newcastle United,
Nor other league teams out on the coasts.
They don’t want to be blamed as the scapegoats,
And that’s why the badgers are moving the goalposts.

They’ve had enough of government ministers,
The farmers, and other tub-thumpers,
They’re confused by all the statistics,
And the constant re-hashing of numbers.

So now they’ve called on all of their allies,
All the creatures that the countryside boasts,
And got them to sabotage the hunting,
Whilst they get on with moving more goalposts.

What if the deer changed all of the white markings,
And the foxes built a new ditch?
What if the rats ran off with the corner flags,
And the field-mice built nests on the pitch?

What if the cats and rats infested the grand-stands,
And the kestrels ruled over all as the hosts?
Then the biggest change that you’d see on the ground,
Wouldn’t be the badgers moving the goalposts.

Bad science is causing this mayhem;
But it shouldn’t cause much of a shock,
Because this is what you’ll end up with,
If you keep putting Mr. Brock in the dock.

So let’s get this cull into perspective:
Let’s not celebrate victory with toasts.
Let’s understand that it’s all a big mess -
It’s the badgers moving the goalposts!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Thursday 10 October 2013

Market Day

Market Day

Across the square, under the old Market Cross
Among white lines, yesterday reserved for the cars
An encampment of trucks and white vans
Stalls under their candy-stripe awnings
Channelling raindrops into small streams
Dripping off corners into baskets and trolleys

Shouting and calling, touting and yelling
Today’s bargains, special offers
Everything fresh from the farm
From Cox’s in boxes, bananas in bunches,
Grapes, tomatoes and pears
Eggs, bacon and ham
Puddings, pies and pasties
Sauces, pickles and jam
Milk, cheeses and honey
Flowers, veggies and fruit
Everything’s there if you’ve got money

Oily, scaly wet fish, fresh from the seas
Sharp fins, bright eyes and mouths open
All good at this price
Glittering, silver darlings
Fanned out on piles of crushed ice

Men’s outsizes, ladies’ lingerie, hats, bras, knickers and socks
Hoover bags, replacement parts, watches, batteries and clocks

Stall-holders sipping extra-sweet tea
Hugging the mugs for their warmth
Take-away bacon rolls cooling on the side
While change is quickly given
Keeping up incessant banter for the punters
A thriving cash economy
Among the strolling bargain-hunters

Hours later, the camp dismantled, the rubbish, the mess and the muck,
Brushes and brooms in the rain, and work-men with the garbage-truck

The wind whips round the deserted space
Whilst, inside, in the pub and the café
It’s time to watch someone else working
And for some hot food and a drink
A chance at last to get warm
A space to reflect and to think


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Wednesday 9 October 2013

Double Agent

Double Agent

Do not be fooled by the easy manner
Or his apparently warm, affectionate nature
The well-groomed, tailored coat
Perfect hair and manicured whiskers
Nor his domesticated demeanour

Do not be taken in by his love of warmth
And cosy, comfortable, curled position
Nor his sleepy, silent gaze
As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth
Always dozing during daylight
And rubbing round the legs at feeding time

Do not believe for one moment that his carefully managed image,
This cool, collected character, is at all what he purports to be
For Sam is a double-agent, licensed to kill
A sleeper, hiding his true identity
Lying low until Agent Moonlight gives the signal
Calls him from retirement to carry out his next assignment
Working under cover of the darkness
For another operation in a foreign field

Passing through the portal, turning his collar to the night
Nose, ears and senses all alert, carefully checking his equipment
Teeth, paws and claws, all razor-sharpened, glinting
Ready for rapid deployment, sleek and silent
He slips away without a backward glance
Leaving his safe house, out on patrol,
Round his marked and guarded territory
Eyes narrowed, focused, single-minded, ruthless
A trained professional, working alone
Driven by feral, instinctive urges
To taste fresh flesh and warm blood
Each evening before the curfew falls

This murderous, vicious assassin
Callous creeping killer in the night
Will make short work of anything that squeaks and scurries
Briefly before it dies, life throttled from its throat
Then brought back, trophy-style
To be chewed upon the killing floor
The fur and bones left undigested

Mission accomplished, victims abandoned
Honour and appetite satisfied
His shady, secret life discarded
He wanders slowly back to base
Reports in for the evening
Meanders to his sleeping quarters
Cleaning his equipment
Before, contented, curling tail beneath
Setting head upon his paws
To take his after-dinner nap
And resume his old identity


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Tuesday 8 October 2013

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

Squeeze the fruit, enjoy the juice,
And drink it whilst it’s fresh.
This really is that rainy day
And now, right now, is the very time
To indulge the appetite.
Do not prevaricate or hesitate,
Nor wait for some distant tomorrow.

Seize this memory,
This particular moment on this day,
This exact second when you saw and heard,
Smelt and felt this sensation.
Perhaps it will be there again another time
But you can never know for sure
And it may be lost it forever
If you let it go today.

There is no knowing what span of years is yours,
What may happen in days to come,
How long there might be still to go,
Or how close to the end
Before the force of life fails and fades,
When what holds it all together
One day will simply cease to work,
A heart no longer beating, pumping,
Driving the body to its daily workings,
Nor any longer draw in breath
As it has a million times before.

This precious thread will snap,
For it is thin and may break
At any moment, without warning.
Be careful, it is a fragile thing,
The material crumbling in your hand
Falling like dust between your fingers
Into an empty nothingness.

When the curtain finally falls,
Rehearsal over, there will be no performance.
The scene deserted, the actor gone away,
The costume lying empty
And piled inert upon the floor,
No lights, no dialogue,
No expression of emotion
And an end to thinking, feeling, aching.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013