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Saturday 31 May 2014

Earl Grey Tea Bread

Recipe for: EARL GREY TEA-BREAD

Ingredients:

·         275g mixed fruit or sultanas
·         300ml strong black Earl Grey tea
·         60g soft brown sugar
·         Zest of one orange or lemon
·         2 large eggs
·         275g plain flour
·         2 ½ tsp baking powder
·         1 tsp ground ginger
·         ½ tsp ground cinnamon
·         ¼ tsp ground nutmeg
·         ¼ tsp salt

Method:

1.       Grease & line 2lb/ 900g loaf tin
2.       Heat oven to 170C/ 160C fan/ 335F, gas 3 ½
3.       Put dried fruit in a saucepan with the tea, bring to the boil & simmer for one minute
4.       Add sugar and zest, stirring to dissolve, and set aside to cool
5.       In a separate large bowl mix the flour & spices
6.       Beat the two eggs lightly in a separate small bowl
7.       Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones in the large bowl & mix carefully
8.       Tip/ spoon the mixture into the loaf tin & smooth the top gently
9.       Bake for 50-55 minutes, testing with s skewer that the loaf is cooked through
10.    Remove and cool in the tin for ten minutes, before lifting out onto wire rack.

What else you need to know:

1.       Slice and butter thickly & eat with a cup of tea.


Friday 30 May 2014

Missing

Missing

You were clearly there at the start
A living, breathing boy
The Victorian green certificate
Carefully inked in clerk’s neat copperplate
Hard evidence of your entry to the world

And again, newly brothered, at home with Mum and Dad
My unknown great-grandparents
The family names grouped
Rows and columns in the census
Together at century’s turn

And again, a decade later, I can clearly see your name
Stone-mason’s apprentice, just as your father had been
Young, strong, single, patriot to the cause of conflict
Caught up in the rush to enlist, marching away with the Pals

And then you simply vanished from the face of the Earth
Somewhere in the French mud, if I were to hazard a guess
The service records destroyed, ironically lost in the later Blitz

Never married, no death recorded
No longer there when you were needed
It became a dead-end wherever I looked
As if you had never existed
A missing branch of the family tree

But I can see the gaps in the photographs
Where you should have been standing
The gatherings you ought to have attended
The children you never had, the cousins you never provided
And I can sometimes hear your voice
Filling gaps in conversations
In the folk-lore of family

I wish you’d been here to meet me when I made my own entrance
For you’d already left long before I came
So I couldn’t reach out to touch you
It’s as if you’re still missing in action
And I’m touched by your absence


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Thursday 29 May 2014

There's A Killer In The Village

Killer In The Village

There’s a killer in our village
And he’s not been brought to justice
He’s out there right now
Walking round a free man
Because no-one knows
About his guilty secret

There’s a killer in our village
He’s just an ordinary guy
With a wife and children
Worrying about his credit card
And his hefty mortgage
Perhaps the same as you and I

There’s a killer in our village
And everybody knows his name
They see him down the pub
And he plays on all the local teams
They’ve been known to pat him on the back
When he makes a winning score

There’s a killer in our village
Who knows how to hit a target
He’s top gun at computer games
With hand/ eye co-ordination
Second-to-none, rated excellent
For a special military job

There’s a killer in our village
Yet no-one lives in any fear
He drives over to the airbase
And he works his every shift
Then he passes through security
And descends in to his bunker

There’s a killer in our village
But no-one’s after him
He peers into his monitor
Yet he’s never in any danger
A pilot who always stays at home
And flies the drones in Afghanistan


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Wednesday 28 May 2014

Chicken With Mustard & Cider

Recipe for: CHICKEN with MUSTARD & CIDER

Ingredients:

·         1 tblsp olive oil
·         750g skinless, boneless chicken (thighs/ breast) cut into chunks
·         1-2 onions, peeled & thickly sliced
·         2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
·         400ml medium dry cider
·         175g/ 6oz half-fat crème fraiche
·         2 tblsp wholegrain mustard
·         Small bunch parsley, chopped
·         Few sprigs of fresh herbs – thyme, tarragon, chives, sage

Method:

1.       Heat oil in large frying pan, and cook chicken for 4-5 minutes until browned
2.       Remove chicken from pan with slotted spoon and reserve
3.       Add sliced onions to pan, cooking for a few minutes
4.       Add sliced garlic, cooking for one minute
5.       Add cider and bring to boil
6.       Add back the reserved chicken, cover & simmer gently for 10 minutes
7.       Remove lid and add crème fraiche, mustard and herbs, simmering for a final five minutes

What else you need to know:

1.       Serve with rice and a green vegetable e.g. steamed broccoli


Tuesday 27 May 2014

Wargames

Wargames     
                                                                                                            
Heads bowed forward
to concentrate upon the task
clean-shaven faces
beneath the headsets
reflect the screen-glow
amid an arcade of work-stations
computers and communications
racks and tangled cables
hands upon the joysticks
making careful corrections
to course and altitude
fingers flicking nervously
around the bomb-buttons
as the targets come into focus

An aerial view of desert landscape
criss-crossed with beaten tracks
unfolds slowly far below
small settlements of human habitation
at the correct co-ordinates
and the sought-after compounds
encompassed by perimeter walls
home to suspected fighters
insurgent enemies
in a distant combat zone

The transmission time-delay
of remote telemetry
muffles the stark reality
of sound and vision
of the over-flying drone
dealing out its deadly cargo
of silent sky-borne death
whilst the pilots sit secure
removed from any jeopardy
detached and unconnected
bunkered beneath the ground
in a rural homeland
amid cool and air-conditioned calm
within the secure perimeter
behind the blast-door


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Monday 26 May 2014

Outrage

Outrage

The explosion comes
Always without warning
The ear-drum splitting noise
The force of the blast
And the percussive shock-wave
Of shrapnel flying in all directions
Screams of terror filling the air
And dust-clouds billowing
As if to coat the bloody bodies
And hide them from inspection

The cracking of concrete
And the crunch of shattered glass
An uneven layer of dusty debris
The smoking aftermath of bombers
Dealing out death and indiscriminate injury
Damaged bodies and severed limbs
Casualties littered across the street

The wail of urgent sirens
Heralds the arrival of police and paramedics
Who crawl across the wreckage
Pulling out maimed and mangled bodies
In unseen heroic acts
But who later on are more visible
Standing outside the hospitals
And before the cameras
Detailing the deceased
And estimating numbers

And yet these official figures
Take on very different meanings
Whether in Boston or Baghdad
In London or Afghanistan
Where the value of a Western life
Becomes inflated by the media
And where a Middle Eastern soul
Who was someone’s husband
Mother, father, brother
A lately-living person
Is reduced to just a cipher
Just a nameless victim
And somehow worth a little less


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Sunday 25 May 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 25th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 25th May 2014

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

1.       Most members of the Parish Council and the Bromham Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) are now safely behind bars after being convicted of a wide range of sexual assault charges against children starting back in the 1950s and going right through to the present day.  Sentencing at Bromham Crown Court was delayed when most of the judges and the legal profession were also charged with similar offences.

2.       A “minor earthquake” came to Bromham politics this week when UBLIP (the United Bromham Liberation Independence Party) won a seat on Bromham Parish Council, after running a campaign based on pulling Bromham out of Wiltshire, and protecting Bromham jobs against Seend immigrants.

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


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Saturday 24 May 2014

Safari So Good

Safari, So Gooda poem un-inspired by a visit to Longleat in the rain

It might be a strange thing to want to do,
But I had a craving to go to the park,
Not to that flat thing at the end of the road,
But to see the creatures saved from the Ark.

I wanted to see animals all exotic,
From Asia and Africa and such.
(I know that I’m living in Wiltshire,
But surely, it’s not asking too much?)

So we drove off down to Longleat,
And followed the signs right up the path,
Where they’ve got all sorts of creatures,
Including the latest Marquess of Bath.

Now I know it probably costs a few bob,
To build a few enclosures and cages,
But I didn’t think it’d cost me so much:
To get in was at least a week’s wages!

And we should have picked better weather,
Cause the day was all cloudy and wet,
And I think it were on a cold Monday,
The most miserable day you could get.

The animals were getting over their week-end,
Sunday must have been better, I’ve no doubt,
So they were all sleeping it off,
And none of them wanted to come out.

We couldn’t choose, to go on a Jungle Cruise,
For the boats were all moored up that day.
We had a short phase, lost in the Monkey Maze,
But even the meerkats slept – what can I say?

We repaired to the Capybara Café,
But they didn’t have anything we’d want,
Nor did we stay, in the Hippo Hideaway,
And ended up in the Rhino Restaurant.

My Safari Burger had made me feel bad,
So I had no wish to go on the Funfair,
What I needed were the great open spaces,
The Africa Drive-Thru and get some fresh air.

This’ll be good, we thought as we drove,
We’ll see the wide open Savannah at least,
With buffaloes, giraffes and some zebra,
And great herds of wildebeest.
  
Alas the experience was somewhat different,
Past warning notices and thence,
Two sets of gates and piles of barbed wire,
Warders in Jeeps, and a security fence.

Security cameras watched our every move
To ensure that we weren’t in any danger,
You weren’t allowed out of the car,
And we were watched every few yards by a ranger.

It was a bit like being in Parkhurst,
Not that I’ve been there, you know,
Except there was nothing for the captives to do,
Not even some mail-bags to sew.

The lions were bored and sat under the trees,
Like listless teen-agers kicking their heels;
Eyeing all the tasty-looking people in cars:
To them we must’ve looked like Meals on Wheels.

Then out of the final enclosure,
The short line of cars and vans waggled,
A quick trip to the Tiger Toilets,
And then homeward, weary and bedraggled.

So if you’re looking for a wildlife experience,
Whilst you’re dreaming, or lying in bed,
Take a word of advice from someone who knows,
Save up, and go to Africa instead.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Thursday 22 May 2014

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

I saw her again the other day
For the first time out in sunshine
Smiling, bright and happy
Laughing with the other guests
At some dreary garden party
And I admired her whitened skin
Clear and pearlescent
Smooth, unblemished
Her long elegant arms
And perfect figure
Exquisitely displayed
In her low-cut summer dress

And as she turned away
To talk to someone else
Revealing her perfect back
I could see the merest line
Of a long extended tongue
Curling from out the mouth
Of the dragon hidden there
Emerging from beneath
The taut and silken edge
Of the light material
Where it entwined
And inter-mingled
With the crouching tiger
Peeking out from just below

And I thought of the ferocity
Of these two snarling beasts
Which invaded the empty canvas of her skin


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Wednesday 21 May 2014

Early Season Cricket

Early Season Cricket

Oh! To be in England now that April’s here,
Dust off the bats, clean up the wicket:
Time to get back to our great Summer game -
Forget about football – it’s time for some cricket!

It’s the start of another great season,
Which we always do at this time in April,
But the Sun’s not shining high in the sky,
And out in the County, the air remains chill.

As tens of fans huddle in the grand-stands,
And light braziers to keep themselves warm,
The players don extra layers of clothing,
Which is considered terribly bad form.

They’re all dressed in layers of thick jumpers,
With thermals and long-johns beneath,
And you can’t hear the whack of the bat on the ball,
For the sound of their chattering teeth.

The pads and the gloves aren’t helping much,
And the fielders gather together in huddles,
You can’t hit the ball straight through the covers,
Cos it just gets stuck there in the puddles.

There’s icicles hanging on the sight-screen,
The grounds-man’s not even managed to mow,
But there wouldn’t really be much of a point,
As the outfield’s still covered in snow.

The ground’s all lumpy out there in the middle,
There’s big worm-holes quite close to the stumps,
And the ball is bouncing all over the shop,
As it sticks in the mud, or skids off the bumps.

The new batsman can’t stop shivering,
His County cap’s all covered in mould,
He can’t be at peace, standing there at the crease,
When he’s shaking and trembling with cold.

There’s no incentive to make a big score,
Stuck in the middle, out there in the field.
It’s more perishing than brass monkeys,
Stand still too long, and your blood has congealed.

Everyone’s running around like a mad-man,
It’s just the same with the fast bowler.
They’re all doing their best to keep warm,
But it’s hard when the weather is polar.
  
The wind is howling, it’s likely to rain,
At the moment it’s always bad light,
And the only thing you’re likely to catch
Is a bad case of terminal frost-bite!

They’re turning vermillion in the pavilion,
Despite wearing a great-coat and scarf,
And the very idea of having a cold beer -
It’s freezing – are you having a laugh?

The boundary-line looks like a ditch,
The green sward is like a paddock of mud,
The line of the pitch plays like a bitch,
Playing today surely can’t do any good?

Whatever happened to Summer’s warmth?
Now large hailstones is about all you can see,
And you can’t wait to be back in the Club-house,
With a cup of hot Bovril for tea.

So if this ain’t the right time for cricket,
Then I’d like to ask the question – when is?
Never mind – soon time for strawberries & cream:
It’s never like this for the tennis!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Tuesday 20 May 2014

Mole

Mole

Early morning garden wandering
Feeling the wetness of dew
From the lawn’s long grass
Soaking through the shoe-soles
I stumble across something
That upsets the leisurely stroll
The tell-tale signs of spoil-heaps
The unmistakeable evidence
Of the presence of mole

Mounds are scattered round
Creating an irregular landscape
Pitted by small soil-mountains
Piles of loam above ground
Tunnelled out from down below
Such vandalism is not caused by the vole
These burrowings and diggings
Are of something a size larger
That can only suggest mole

I can trace the track of his wanderings
The lines that betray channels below
As he blindly pursues his lone destiny
And I wonder if he ever pokes his head up
To see where he’s got to today?
The underneath’s now riddled with holes
A scene of rural despoilation
Where the worms have scattered in panic
In their heedless flight from the mole

And I’ll whack the piles with a spade
Trying to flatten them down once again
In a quite futile gesture of anger
That will do little good in the end
For my little invader won’t be deterred
And I know deep down in my soul
That once he’s taken up residence
He’ll stick around for some time
And I’ll be sharing my lawn with a mole


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Monday 19 May 2014

Morning

Morning

Running down a darkened hallway
Towards an opening door
Where light floods around
And falls in upon the floor
Suddenly there is sound again
Rushing, scraping, scratching
And an end to thoughts and dreams
To schemes of reddened skies
To floating boulders slowly turning
To sweeping clouds of yellow
And the bellowing, aching roar
Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shore
To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves
Driven, wind-blown, swirling
To the clatter of hooves
Of blue-skinned ponies trotting
Through a cold and empty square
The space echoing back the sound
To the voids of blackened eye-holes
Of grotesque, trembling skulls
And which, after an endless time
Slowly dissolve and desiccate
Into the crystals of the waking world


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Sunday 18 May 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 18th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 18th May 2014

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

1.       Managers and some officials at the privately-owned Bromham Parsnip mines have been arrested, following the mid-week disaster when a pocket of previously undetected cabbage gas exploded, injuring a large number of root-vegetable miners.  The owners of the large drift-mine, one of the largest in Wiltshire, denied any negligence, and insisted that the highest standards of vegetable safety were maintained at the pit.

2.       The Governor of the Bank of Bromham, Mark Piglet, has voiced his concerns about the fragility of the recent recovery of the local economy.  He cited in particular the “cottage bubble”, which he feared would lead to inflation in the value of property for the impoverished and barely-human in-breds who work in the local vegetable fields.  “Only last week,” he said, “we had reports of gazumping, with previously-agreed property deals being thrown into turmoil by new increased offers of extra onions and leeks to sweeten the deals.”
No-one from the Bank of Bromham was available to comment about what on Earth he was talking about.

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


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Saturday 17 May 2014

Lengths

Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time
That there must be a better way
My head emerging from the water
Grasping for the air
Lungs hurting and gasping
Breathless from the effort
Between tired strokes
Sometimes near choking
In the careless back-wash bow-wave
Of others beside me
Be-spectacled dolphins
Speeding through the swell
In their effortless freestyle

And that there are easier means
Than this daily immersion,
In stinging chlorine spray
To drag along an ungainly body
Through the crash and splash
Beyond the pain barrier
Of an aching, heaving chest
And exhausted arms and legs
Which soon lose their co-ordination
And any sense of rhythm
Between the lines of lanes
And ability to remain
On the straight and narrow

And that perhaps it’s all so pointless
This swimming end to end
The relentless back and forth
Of many measured lengths
To ignore the overwhelming urge
To simply stop and float awhile
Then sink slowly to the bottom
Amid the rising bubbles
To inspect the detail
And the regular pattern
Picked out on white and blue tiles
Whilst other bathers carry on regardless
And a lifeguard looks on in horror
At the body of a drowning man


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Friday 16 May 2014

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,
A fantastic spot in a little side-street:
Very handy for the shops and the stores,
A location quite difficult to beat.

But as I returned from doing my shopping,
I was in for a terrible shock:
When I tried to get into the car,
I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

It looked like I’d have to break in,
An action which could only perturb,
So I got myself into a helluva panic,
As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,
When I looked into my car at the back –
I’d luckily left open the rear window -
It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

If I could only get my hand inside,
And reach over the top of the glass,
I’d be able to pull up the door handle,
And inside the car be able to pass.

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,
I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,
It would save making a pile of smashed glass:
With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,
Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.
Eventually I pulled on the catch,
And, finally, I opened the door!

What relief! And how happy I was,
As I flopped onto the back seat!
I just had to climb into the front now,
Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

But that was easier said than done,
And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:
I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,
And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

Then at last, I was where I should be.
In triumph I sat behind the wheel,
Getting ready to drive back to my home -
You can imagine how it would feel.

 Then I noticed something untoward:
There were some gloves on the passenger seat,
And some de-icer in the door-pocket -
How they’d got there had me totally beat.

The air-freshener was different,
And there was a road atlas in the rear,
But I never carried such an old thing,
And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,
I should have known it was all wrong,
For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –
Mine was parked three cars further along!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Thursday 15 May 2014

Pears Poached In Red Wine

Recipe for: PEARS POACHED IN RED/ MARSALA WINE

Ingredients:

  • 4-6 firm pears
  • 750ml robust red wine (or sweet marsala)
  • 1 cinnamon stick
  • 3 cloves
  • Pinch nutmeg
  • 1 pared orange zest
  • 2 tblsp redcurrant jelly (or 2oz/ 50g caster sugar if using marsala)
  • 200g brown sugar
  • 1 vanilla pod (if using marsala wine)
 Method:

  1. preheat oven to 150C/ fan 130C
  2. in a flameproof casserole(preferably one of the right size to take the pears standing upright – but see below), put all the ingredients except the pears & bring to a simmer
  3. meanwhile peel the pears carefully, leaving the stalks intact
  4. add the peeled pears to the poaching liquid
  5. cover, then put into the oven for 1½ - 2 hours, depending on size & ripeness
  6. when cooked, remove the pears with a slotted spoon to a warmed serving dish
  7. put the casserole with the cooking liquor back onto the hotplate & reduce the liquid until it reaches a syrupy consistency
  8. strain the liquid over the pears to make them look glossy
 What else you need to know:

  1. serve hot from the oven, or after chilling in the fridge
  2. serve with cream, crème fraiche or yoghurt
  3. you can keep the pears whole, or as halves, depending on the effect you want to achieve


Wednesday 14 May 2014

Fairy Chimneys

Fairy Chimneys

Within these ancient river valleys
Hewed out through the riven landscape
Strange bony fingers stretch upwards
Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky
Protected from erosion of wind and weather
By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

Thus they sit
Wearing dainty hats or caps
Extended mushroom shapes
Tall structures
Amid the tuff
Curved and crooked
Twisted, leaning
Top-heavy stones
Defying gravity
Balanced high
Up in the air
Waiting for that moment
When the pillar
Will at last collapse
And rain down rocks
To the ground beneath
A fairy chimney no longer


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Tuesday 13 May 2014

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,
And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,
Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,
It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

But finding the right kind can be tricky,
And there’s some myths need de-bunking,
Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,
Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

It’s got to home-baked and British,
Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.
If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,
A Florentine or a biscotti.

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,
The Club, the Domino and all of that,
These fancy types are all very well,
But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

But you’re surely asking for trouble,
If you start off with chocolate in fingers.
You see, it melts off in the hot tea,
It covers everything, and it lingers.

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,
And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,
And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:
So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,
To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),
To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,
Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:
You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,
Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,
But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,
Their supporters would sing a grand tune:
Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,
The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,
About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:
For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,
Each of them turns into goo and congeals.
  
Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,
It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.
Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,
But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,
A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,
But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,
And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

So taking all into consideration,
My conclusion’s more than suggestive:
Just forget every other kind of biscuit -
You know where you are with a Digestive!


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Monday 12 May 2014

Dervish

Dervish

We sit quietly beneath the Earth, hushed in a hollowed cavern
facing an empty central circle and shiver in the dark, dimly-lit,
anticipating the mystic rite to come

Four figures enter, heads bowed, black-cloaked, hats like tombstones
dervish-devout, focused upon the drum, the pipe, the strings
improvising, building slowly to steady, hypnotic rhythm
calming the air around them

Then the semazen themselves arrive, arms criss-crossed at first, testifying the unity of God
intoning Qu’ranic eulogy to the Prophet, their delicate first movements
salaaming with care and exactitude, performing their sufic rite
describing the spiritual journey towards a new perfection,
man’s submission of ego, annihilation of self to God, and ascension towards an ecstasy
the very rapture of being

Soon the black cloaks cast aside revealing the ego-shrouds, white skirts of Mevlana
and, slowly, the turning itself begins, revolving right to left around the heart
turning ever-faster into whirling like the blood around the body
protons in the atom, their own steady orbit around the space
arms now spread widely open, one hand pointed up towards the sky
the other back down towards the Earth
connecting God with Man

Eyes closed in concentration, heads inclined upon their shoulders
in the spirit, in the moment, submerged in love
the spinning circulation frenzied for a while, then finished
before returning silently to their cells for further contemplation
and quiet meditation


 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Sunday 11 May 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 11th May 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 11th May 2014

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

1.       The Bromham-Vision Song Contest was won last night by a one-eyed transvestite toilet-cleaner from Seend, who swept to victory on the back of tactical voting by Wiltshire’s outer provinces, thus denying the Bromham super-group, The Piglet Sisters, what would have been a much worthier victory.

2.       A whole series of Bromham personalities from the 70s and 80s have been up in court this week, facing a range of sexual offences including goat-nadgering, floodlit horse-massage and attempted rape with a carrot.  Many of the vegetables’ families were in court to hear the charges being read out, and one parsnip was seen to leave the building in tears.  The cases continue.

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


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Saturday 10 May 2014

Cappadocia

Cappadocia

A hard slog up the climbing roadway
Through the Toros mountains
Wide sedimentary formations
In bold zig-zag patterns
Gash their way along the hill-sides
Into the forbidding landscape
Yet dwarfed by volcanic cones
Whose igneous stones lie scattered
Forgotten playthings
Among the canyons and valleys
Isolated boulders amongst the scrub

Sparse trees and shrubs
Struggle in the high, dry climate
Amongst the debris and tuff-pinnacles
The ground itself crumbling and flaking
Between high rock-hewn promontories
Cheese-hole riddled
With caves and grottoes
Church-studded once
Faded frescoes and carvings
Sheltering monks and acolytes
And the very poorest people
Who eked a living from this land

And in this colour-bleached waste
The basalt and the sandstone
Engage in unequal battle
Pitted against unrelenting elements
Of driving desert-dry winds
Which sand-blast every feature
Smoothing into roundness
Revealing little of the harshness
Of this high plateau
This land-locked steppe
Where strong light casts hard shadows
Of the many pigeons
Which flutter here undisturbed
Small creatures in a vast landscape


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014