Kite

Kite

Holding on against the tug, the pull of the line

The face in shadow, its back against the sun

Never daunted by the tumbling thermals

But using the physics of lift and drag

Its surfaces tensioned and taut

Exploiting atmospheric pressure

The elemental feel and flow of forces

To climb, heavier than the air

To defy the very force of gravity

Up to exhilarating height

Distant now, but still in sight

Scudding rough across the sky

Its silken fabric facets flashing

Straining bamboo frame, pigtail waving

Soaring and swooping in its dizzying ascent

Looping , lifting, lurching,

An aerial aerobic ballet

An angled acrobatic flight of fancy

An unruly child who stretches and strains

Who tests my strength and patience

Who cannot be steered, merely guided

Its own brute force not yet marshalled

High aloft upon the careering wind

Yanking on the leash that holds it back

Restrained and tethered

By the thin umbilical cord

Of the thinnest, toughest string

And anchored to the ground

Connecting Earth and Space

With its head up in the clouds

But my feet firmly planted on the ground

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 28th February 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 28^th February 2016

                                             

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

1.       Great excitement in The Shire this week, when various local dignitaries visited the construction site for the new cross-village high-speed country lane, which snakes its way via a new route from the High Street, past the old cottages, up around the bendy bit, before emerging through a hedgerow near the A342.  It is to be known as the Piglet Line, in honour of someone who has had absolutely nothing to do with its financing or construction.

2.       This was followed two days later by a special run of The Flying Tractor, a class 57 Massey-Ferguson, from the High Street to the other end of the village. This well-loved tractor, more of a local personality than a tractor, has been off the road for nearly ten years whilst awaiting an oil-change and for someone to fix the carburettor, at a total cost of nearly £10.  Fans packed the street and, at one point, the tractor had to slow down a bit when some over-enthusiastic person wandered across the road.  Excitement in Bromham never stops.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,

This infection barrier,

Protector, keeper of my guts,

Which holds my everything inside,

Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor

And from pouring myself away,

Is under attack,

Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,

Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,

A delicate tracery of lines,

A network of flaking layers,

Pieces to be picked and peeled,

Revealing bare tissue below,

Bleeding into crevices,

Creases, valleys and folds

Between fingers and toes,

Dry hair, crumbling nails

Leaving shrinking islands

Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams

And emollient treatments

Penetrate the dermic strata

With cellular, capillary action

Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,

Smoothing, soothing,

Bathing, seeking brief respite

From this never-ending torment

And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,

Spreading further poison

Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic cell,

Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,

Prisoner of a painful pathology,

Chronic, never-ending condition

Making forever unthinkable

Any contact with another human body

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Shack

Shack

Charred remains, burnt stick’d tinder from which

the shack was fashioned, hidden

within the hollow, below beech trees, deep

inside the wood, where his body was found

still cradled within his den.

His place now open to the sky, gaping, where the roof once was,

a door, a corrugated iron sheet, tattered tarpaulin, old palings

rope-shackled, and wire that formed his rural refuge.

His suburban semi only miles away, his wife

and children waiting, unable

to understand what eccentric whim

drove him to live this way, abandon

comfort and company, to bury himself

in muddy abode, freezing

in the depth of winter, half-starving

alone in the back-woods.

Alcohol and cigarettes to numb

the pain, and pass the time,

a camping stove, a naked flame to cook

and warm the fingers, to keep at bay

damp and mould, the essential tools

of staying alive, catching alight, spreading

flames or fumes, smoke or steam becoming

the agency of his unseen death.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Wholemeal & Oat Bread

Recipe for: WHOLEMEAL & OAT BREAD

Ingredients:

• 7g pkt fast-acting dried yeast
• 500ml tepid water
• 700g wholemeal flour
• 1 tsp fine salt
• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 50g porridge oats + extra for sprinkling

 Method:

1. pour the water into a large bowl & add the yeast
2. stir in half the flour & stir to make a thick sticky cream
3. cover with a clean, damp tea-towel & leave somewhere warm for 20 minutes, until the surface is littered with bubbles
4. stir in the salt, oil & most of the remaining flour & the oats, mixing well
5. bring together on a lightly floured surface, adding more flour or water as necessary to give a soft but not sticky dough
6. knead until smooth & elastic – about 10 minutes
7. lightly oil a loaf tin
8. shape the dough to fit the tin, cover & leave in a warm place for the dough to rise again – about one hour
9. heat the oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
10. uncover the loaf, scatter with a few more oats & bake for 35-40 minutes
11. it’s done when it’s golden brown on top, and sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom
12. turn out & cool on a wire rack

Floating

Floating

Quiet night on the river

Waves lapping, slapping gently

Against the side of the boat

Grinding oars the only sound

Creaking, squeaking

Mist, milky, hangs above the surface,

Curls and swirls around.

Lamp held aloft

To light the ferryman’s way

Glimmering through the gloom

Catching pale reflections

From the ripples, then a sudden cry,

Shattering the calm.

Something in the water,

Floating, face-down, a body,

Marks, scars and muddy streaks

Naked, white, gleaming flesh

Turned by the boat-hook,

What’s left of a man,

Face half-eaten, far from fresh.

Nibbled and gnawed

By river creatures

Fish and frogs, river rats.

Dumped upstream somewhere

For someone else to find.

Hauled aboard with grudging effort,

Dirt-smeared, stinking, putrid,

A rotten fish to catch

Bruises on the buttocks,

Scratches, bloody wounds,

Tattered torso,

Tattoos and piercings

A victim easy to identify

By those who do such work.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Remaindered

Remaindered

No longer upright like new soldiers

Nor neatly shelved, spines straight-stacked

Alphabetical order, fiction authors A to Z

But tumbled, piled at random

Stickered, scattered

Reduced, remaindered

Bargain bin, basement bucket

Rough treatment at many hands

Edges knocked, jackets torn

Dirty, dusty, fingered and forgotten

Marked up and marked down

With little dignity or ceremony

At the end of useful life

More space is needed

To make way for the new stuff

The spirit of today

What’s happening now

Celebrity authors and TV tie-ins

Titles that sell, units that shift

The next thing, the new wave

Modern, fashionable, exciting

Where it’s at, de nos jours

Moving with the times

The zing of the zeitgeist

And the ring of the till

No room for the out-of-print

Except out of the way

Out of sight, out of mind

Deleted from the catalogue

The stock-code and the index

A slow and lingering demise

And a delayed disposal

Awaiting the final solution

Dumped, shredded, pulped

The bulk commodity of paper

A never-borrowed, never-bought

Unread volume

No reviews nor royalties nor renown -

He handles a copy, thumbing its pages,

Familiar with every word

And the effort it cost him to write

Now regretful, bitter and broken

He flees from the bookshop

The door left flapping

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Mouse

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,

the unmistakeable sound of victory,

Growling, howling, crying, mewling,

of his voices mixed together.

Whether pleased with himself

or ashamed of what he’s done,

The hunter stands defiant

astride the tiny bloody body.

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,

he makes a quick escape,

leaving his trophy

To renew his hunt out in the field,

driven by his nature,

a feral instinct to track and pounce

upon creatures smaller than himself,

To eat some warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,

Eyes glittering in terror,

Its body still warm,

snout and tail intact,

mangled limb, gory gash exposed,

life-force seemingly expired,

Lies inert beneath the table.

Left alone for but a moment

while collecting kitchen paper,

rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,

paraphernalia of removal and disposal

of a corpse unwanted

Intended for a bin, not a burial.

But the deathplace now deserted,

the body gone,

disappeared elsewhere,

smears of blood and body fluids,

shining, wet and fresh,

Crawled away in agony and fear,

to hide and tremble

in place unknown

to look out, spying upon the world,

Watching and waiting,

for a slow and lingering demise.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 21st February 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 21^st February 2016

                                             

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

1.       Dave Wentwrong, leader of Bromham Parish Council, has hailed his “breakthrough deal” with the magnates of Wiltshire Council, and has announced a Parish Plebiscite in June to vote on the this Okey-Cokey deal (in, out, in out, shake it all about).  The deal, which includes provision for growers in Bromham to retain their own carrots, to grow kale without yielding to the “brassica tax”, and to provide a “emergency brake” for Fred’s old tractor, is being touted as the biggest County deal for a generation.  Several Field Land-Owner’s Party (FLOP) have declared their intention to totally ignore the plebiscite by going on holiday in June to their vast private estates in the Caribbean.

2.       On Thursday it was announced that Lee “Harper” Piglet, aged 89, had passed away.  Famous for her novel, published 50 years ago, “To Fill an Irrigation Ditch”, a scathing indictment of anti-grockle sentiment in 1940’s Bromham, was one of the most famous books to go out of print.  Its unexpected sequel/ prequel, published only last year, “Go Get a Botch-man” was not a commercial success, dealing as it did with the adventures of a hapless handyman.  There are already several such characters in Bromham, so this was hardly a major revelation.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Beast

Beast

A carcase lies splayed,

Deer dismembered,

Limbs at every angle,

Throat ripped out, entrails spilled,

Ribs exposed, gnawed and bloody,

Its mouth a rictus

Grimace of violent death.

No stoat, no stealthy weasel,

No passing fox, nor badger

Could cause such carnage,

Nor hunt, stalk,

Then haul to earth

Such heavy prey,

Nor rip and tear the flesh,

Leaving here such grisly remnants.

Nothing nearby found

No hair, no skin, no tracks,

Neither teeth-marks, nor DNA,

No photos, prints or evidence,

But then the dogs, nervous, set to barking

As if there’s something out there.

And rough men with guns

Shake their heads

And pull meaningful faces,

As if to say, knowingly,

That a killer stalks these woods and fields,

A creature unseen, sly and stealthy,

Sleuth-like, sloping, sliding,

Slipping through trees,

A reported shape, a shadow

Large, long and lean,

A cunning, catlike killer,

Fierce, feline, feral hunter,

Black, background-blending,

Glimpsed within the greenery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Yes, Chef!

Yes, Chef!

There’s nothing on telly these days,

Except for cookery shows,

And they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

How many are there?  Nobody knows!

Somebody should tell ‘er, that Nigella,

To stop licking her fingers,

And they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

Cos food pornography lingers.

It’s a shame-y, about Jamie,

A cheeky chappy, who’s always happy,

But they’re all bitchin’ in his kitchen,

About recipes that are too snappy.

I could fall, for Heston Blumenthal,

And be in luck, at The Fat Duck,

Cos they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

But his snail porridge tastes rather….yuck!

I’d set at defiance, his gastronomic science,

And loudly scream, at bacon-and-egg ice-cream,

For they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

Prices a nightmare, but food that’s a dream.

What do you do, with Michel Roux?

It’s very hard, to be Michelin-starred,

And they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

Cos he’s French, to understand him is hard.

Myself I would plonk, beside Raymond Blanc,

Another Frenchman, I have to mention.

And they’re all bitchin’ in his kitchen,

When he uses sous-chefs as his henchmen.

I’m still smartin’, over James Martin,

Trying to be the best, with every celebrity guest,

Yes they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

When he cooks his rare pigeon breast.

There’s pottage, in River Cottage,

They all have a ball, no portions are small,

For they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

When Hugh Fearlessly Eats It All.

We’ll have ham, see, with Gordon Ramsey,

It’s absurd, when he’s carving a bird,

And they’re all bitchin’ in his kitchen,

When he gives them the F-word!

I’m still looking for genuine cooking,

Something to feed long-distance hikers,

I don’t want any bitchin’ in the kitchen,

When I run into the Hairy Bikers.

   

We’ve had haddock, with Fanny Craddock,

We were never annoyed, with Keith Floyd,

But now they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

And the real workers are getting annoyed.

There’s a certain quality, about the cult of personality,

It’s not about who cooks, but more about looks,

And they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

When the profit’s in coffee-table books.

See - I’m damned, if I care about brand,

It gets me stewed, and in a right mood,

No wonder they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

It’s nothing to do with real food!

Look there – another range of cook-ware!

Am I really meant, to trust their endorsement?

That’s why they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

That’s where the Marketing money all went!

No - what I really like best, is a good contest,

I go quite a load, for that John Torode,

And they’re all bitchin’ in the kitchen,

When their soufflés explode.

They use Neff, on Masterchef,

Contestants in apron and hat,

And they’re all twitchin’ in that kitchen,

Cos cooking doesn’t get harder than that!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Tree

Tree

A deep, vicious scar, inflecting upwards to the left

Revealing creaminess beneath the brown,

The scabrous bark broken in many places,

Scratches and marks amongst dark cladding,

And a trail of evidence leading backwards

Through severed wire, now fallen, rusting,

A shattered fence, scattered firewood,

And harsh, thick grooves in the greasy mud,

The grass churned, turned aside,

Straight black tracks, a slick of rubber on the road,

Evidence of speed and skid,

That can be measured and documented,

Needed for the accident report

And the inquests on these boys.

Sharp, hard metal once embedded,

That had cut and sliced and scythed its path

To leave disfigurement,

And lasting defacement.

Now a natural grave-marker,

An arboreal cenotaph,

Supporting fading floral tributes

In shining, glinting cellophane

Marking out the death-spot,

A shrine for grieving relatives,

And a rubbernecker’s magnet

Early hours, New Year’s morning,

A shape shifting at the edge of the wood,

A flash of feral eyes reflected in main-beams,

Suddenly frightened, fleeing,

Running out across their path

In the pitch-black night.

Then the swerving, screaming, screeching,

Smashing, crashing, careering,

And a hard and heavy, bloody impact.

And the creature dashes away

Through thick undergrowth,

Escaping into open fields

And looks back, its own heart still beating.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Greenwash-day Blues

Greenwash-day Blues (or why you shouldn’t believe Corporate PR about the environmental benefits they claim to bring).

“Beyond Petroleum” it’s called

That’s the latest moniker for BP,

I can’t understand it personally,

It just sounds like garbage to me.

It’s slick advertising you know

Where they’re adding a new sheen

They’re covering up the reality

And making loud claims that they’re green.

They spend more on their marketing

Than they do on their “green” actions

Their practices haven’t changed all that much

The difference is measured in fractions.

They’re spouting new words & new slogans

But to me it all sounds just like tosh

They’re not really eco-friendly

It’s just a new veneer of greenwash.

For the oil companies are ripping the earth

Working in every geography

This kind of coy covering up

Can only be called eco-pornography.

The factories poison the earth,

The airlines are polluting the sky.

It’s hard to live without oil or travel

But we’re going to have to try.

For the planet is coughing & choking

The natural world sits in pollution

We’ve got to find some much better ways

And look for sustainable solutions.

We all know that there’s a problem

And it’s bad enough being the cause

Without pretending to be helping

Whilst carrying on without any pause.

So let’s have some integrity and truth

In all of the verbal exchanges

Let’s not have more of this hogwash

But spend the budget on real changes.

And let’s stop this carbon-offset nonsense

We all know that it’s playing a game

It makes no tangible difference

And leaves the air choking just the same.

We can’t stop the cows & sheep farting

It’s just what they do all of the day

We need to find a better approach

We need to find an easier way.

  

It’s no good all of us doing our bit

With re-cycling our rubbish & waste

If big companies carry on just the same

Well – it sure leaves a bad taste.

The governments & the countries

Need to find a way to agree

It’s down to all of the big boys

Not just little you and me.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016