Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 31st March 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 31^st March 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      An investigation has been launched after a 49 bus service from D-Town, timetabled to arrive in Trowvegas, actually arrived in Shitandoom, nearly 20 miles from its intended destination.  A spokes-bot for the bus company said that in future they would get round this embarrassing problem by simply renaming the Shitandoom terminus as “Trowvegas North”, and denied that passengers might find this at all confusing.  “After all,” it said, “Ryanair have been getting away with this tactic for years.”

2.      And it has been another lively week in D-Town’s Council Chamber, where a wide range of “indicative” votes have been taken this week.  Every proposal put forward was roundly defeated.  Asked what this all meant, particularly the “indicative” nature of the votes, the town mayor replied “it indicates that nobody knows what to do, it indicates that there is no majority for anything, it indicates that we haven’t got a clue, and it indicates that we may keep on doing this for the next twenty years as it’s such as lot of fun.  And we get to keep our attendance allowances, and to claim even more expenses.  It indicates that we’ve all totally lost the plot.”  He then indicated that our reporter should go forth and multiply.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

The Impossible Dream

The Impossible Dream

What a joy it is to be rational,

To only believe what’s in front of your eyes,

Yet look at the evidence all around us,

You’d be in for quite a surprise!

Man’s capacity to imagine

The weird, the oddball and the bizarre,

Can take you to a whole new planet

Of experience that’s stranger by far.

Perhaps it came from man’s superstition,

His attempt to explain the universe,

Perhaps it just came out of old folklore,

To explain bad fortune and worse.

Mythical creatures come to the fore:

The Yeti, or Bigfoot or Unicorns,

Ghosts and griffins, werewolves and wyverns,

Pixies, sphinxes, sylphs and leprechauns.

The bogey-man, the sand-man, Santa Claus,

Flying pigs, Pegasus the winged horse,

Fauns and fairies, angels, devils and demons,

And the Loch Ness Monster of course.

Frankenstein’s monster, and Count Dracula,

Vampires and zombies, the walking dead,

Hobbits and hydras, warlocks and witches,

And for chimeras there’s a lot to be said.

Goblins and dragons, and doppelgangers,

Satyrs and sirens, mermaids and mer-men,

Cerberus and cyclops, and the Phoenix,

And shape-shifters far beyond our ken.

But beyond the three-humped camels,

What’s the point in this day and age?

Isn’t it Elf and Safety gone mad?

Isn’t it time to turn a new page?

Haven’t we yet finished with orcs and with trolls?

Do we still need imps, ogres, the manticore?

Wraiths, The Grim Reaper and Santa Cluas?

Shouldn’t we ask what it’s all for?

It’s the twenty-first century now!

We know how things work, covered every angle -

Shouldn’t we bundle up all of this nonsense,

And lose it in the Bermuda Triangle?

  

Or perhaps someone has an interest

In keeping this in front of our eyes?

The franchises, the branding, the products,

And a chance to sell us more merchandise?

Or maybe a need for some fantasy,

To forget that life can be a bit gritty,

To indulge our imaginations,

To escape from a reality that’s shitty?

Anyway, I’ve bent your ears for long enough,

I need to run along, I’ve got plenty to do -

I’ve got an appointment later night –

It’s the new series of Doctor Who!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

An Imaginary Walk With David Bowie

An (Imaginary) Walk With David Bowie

The valley falls away beneath our feet

The path feels coarse and crumbling, rough stones underfoot

We have to watch our step, yet he seems to find it easy going

As he capers and prances along beside me

His puckish face alight with the possibility of mischief

The dark hills shelter the incoming rain-clouds

Yet this crack’d actor, now in his golden years,

Simply scampers along, over the stiles and through the gates

As we wander with purpose from station to station

His androgynous form somewhat at odds with his surroundings

The muddy fields gradually slow our progress

I’m feeling unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed

Yet David, the prettiest star, seems un-bothered

By the gathering storm, the changes in the landscape

And the sound and vision of sweeping rain

And soon the moon emerges

Its light catching the spangles and sparkles

In his Ziggy Stardust lycra body-suit

And the glint of his mischievous smile

A man who fell to Earth, a space oddity

A starman stranded on our planet

I’m deathly tired, and I stumble on the footpath

And still this wild-eyed boy from Freecloud

Is full of energy, and nothing but supportive

“Better hang on to yourself” he says

Or “let’s dance!” as he pirouettes in front of me

I stare ahead, irresolute to reach our goal

But he’s looking at the stars, wondering if there’s life on Mars

A thin white duke, a laughing gnome, a rock n’ roll suicide

Major Tom, the Jean genie, the man who sold the world

Less than a rebel, rebel, but more a lad insane

I feel too low, I have not half his energy

So I pursue our direction through the downward dale

And I wonder if he’s really there

Or some figment of a tired mind

Some temporary imagining, an occasional dream

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Red Cabbage With Port & Pears

Recipe for: RED CABBAGE with Port & Pears

Ingredients:

·        Large red cabbage, quartered, cored & very thinly sliced

·        1 large onion, peeled & very thinly sliced

·        200ml/ 7 fl oz port

·        1 large cinnamon stick

·        Pinch ground cloves

·        2 star anise, or a large pinch of mixed spice

·        2 tblsp soft brown sugar

·        1 tblsp red wine vinegar

·        4 firm pears, unpeeled, but cored & cut into small pieces

Method:

1.      Put all the ingredients, except the pears, into a large pan and bring to the boil.

2.      Turn the heat down to low, and cover with a tight fitting lid.

3.      Cook gently for an hour, stirring occasionally.

4.      Add the pears and stir in.

5.      Cook for another 30-60 minutes until the pears & cabbage are very soft & cooked through.

6.      Season with a little salt & pepper before serving.

What else you need to know:

1.      Can be cooked a day or two ahead, then chilled or frozen, and re-heated.

2.      Goes really well with beef, venison or game.

Birdnoise

Birdnoise

O for the peaceful quiet of rural pursuits

The calm of the countryside

Of England in the summertime

But not with this combined cacophony

And masses of movement

Of our fine feathered friends!

The sprinkling speech of sparrows

The bit-by-bit bantering of blue-tits

The rosy red-breastedness of robins

There’s the calling, cawing croaking of crows

The boisterous blathering and bantering of blackbirds

The stammering of stuttering starlings

The posing and posturing of pigeons

The delicate dancing of doves

The mind-blowing movements of martins

With sweet sweeping of swallows

And swooshing and swooping of swifts

The great gannet-like greediness of gulls

The shouting and screaming of seagulls

The raucous roisterous rowing of ravens

The whacking of woody woodpeckers

The buzzing of bantering buzzards

The keen calling of cantankerous kites

The flash and the flurry of fast-flying falcons

The pure power of peregrines

The hovering of hawks in the heavens

The careful control of the kestrels

The heavy-handedness of huge herons

And, at last, as the sun sinks in the West

You’d think it was finally all over

That quiet would descend on the scene

But that’s just in the daytime!

Between the dawn and the dusk!

Because, by night, there’s the awful, orrible ooting of owls!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Bradford Park Avenue

Bradford Park Avenue

The rush, the dash, the sheer anticipation

The crush, the crowds, the queuing

Through clanking turnstiles underneath the club-house

Thrust out behind the terraces and the stands

Past the changing rooms and press-box

Then the wind, the rain, the smell of fresh-cut grass

The excitement, the hopes of youth

Leaning on the barriers to stop the squash

The shouting and the chanting

The insults and the ranting

With scarves and caps and rattles

The cheering, the jeering and the whistling

Pies and pints and cigarettes

Questioning the parentage of the bloke in black

Screaming at the team to get a bloody move on

Shoot! Pass! Dribble! Man on!!

The wingers drifting down the touchline

Ghosting crosses to the middle

For the centre-forward to rise above the rest

And bury the bladder in the back of the net

Or else the team pushed back beyond the centre circle

On the back foot, into our own half

Where our big defensive line

The centre-halves and full-backs

Commit their crunching tackles

To protect our stopper in the goal

Appealing in wide-eyed amazement

Against every dubious decision

As their opponents bite the mud

The pitch is green, the lines are white

The green and white stripes of The Avenue

The stadium since deserted

Empty echoes of long-gone noise

Crumbling concrete and cracking paint

Rotten wood and glass-less windows

Rain leaking through the patchwork roofs

The water puddling around old crumpled stanchions

Amid the rubbish, the rust and the rot

Tumbledown terraces and tumbleweed growth

The pitch an unkempt meadow

Weeds taller than goalposts

Wasteland of a bygone age

One end of a city that died

The fate of a football club in crisis

Relegated and abandoned

The penalty conceded

Left back in the sixties

And the disappointment of old age

The pitch no longer green, the lines no longer white

The ghostly green and faded white stripes of The Avenue

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Birdlife

Birdlife

Gatherings of gulls

Sweeping, swirling, swooping, screaming

And flockings and flutterings

Of the smaller feathered species

Scatterings of speckled starlings

Silhouettes in the darkening sky

The sun sinking and dying

A roosting of ravens

Eyes sheeny-black and shiny

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

Chirpings, shriekings and chatterings

Alarm calls in the twilight

The shift-change noises of crossing purposes

Between the night-time nesters

Who will sit in fear through the curfew

Of dark-hours till the sun rises again

And the day-time sleepers

Who welcome pale moonlight

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

Shapes and shadows in the darkness

Stirrings, wing-stretchings, shakings

Within the barns and trees

A ruffling and preening of feathers

Sharpened beaks and beady eyes

Of the wakening hunters and raptors

Prior to crepuscular activity

Amid the cawing of crows

And the hooting of owls

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 24th March 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 24^th March 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Security measures were tightened in D-Town this week as the official Risk Status was raised from a sort of pale mauve to a slightly odd shade of turquoise with yellow spots, following the announcement by local armed forces that they had finally defeated the last few strongholds of the Trowvegas Caliphate.  It is feared that disaffected pensioners and other crumblies will flee the disintegrating town only to infiltrate themselves across the border by using fake bus-passes on the 49 bus service, spreading havoc with their walking sticks, zimmer frames and mobility scooters.

2.      And it is expected that D-Town Council will make history this week when a 47^th Meaningless Vote is held in the Council Chamber.  The Guardians Of The Peace Party are expected to operate a three-line whip and a pair of medieval stocks to oppose anything that anybody else proposes.  The atmosphere is now febrile, with all parties split on the best way forward.  There is also to be a vote on the subject of which date is now the absolute deadline for getting a majority vote through.  Various suggestions have been put forward, including 29^th March, 12^th April, 22^nd May, the 12^th of Never, It Might As Well Rain Until September, and I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day.  No calendars were harmed in the making of this sweepstake.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Sacrament

Sacrament

In the awesome name of God,

in the victorious name of Jesus

in the mysterious name of the Spirit

By words we acknowledge our God

By prayer we summon our God

And we wait, we are still

And we wait, we are silent

And we wait, wait for the sounds of God

And the sounds of the sacrament

The breaking of bread and the gushing of wine

The pain of sorrow, and the pulse of hope

And the echo of our name

And the bread in our teeth, a cup on our lips

Other bodies breathing beside us

A voice in our face “The body of your Lord”

A power in our ears “The blood of your Lord”

And we wait for the sounds of God

The sounds of the sacrament

The breaking of bread and the gushing of wine

We hear strange sounds in the distance

The misery of other human lives

The scramble for rice, and the searching through the garbage

The shuffle of withered limbs, the breaking of brittle bones

The shiver of a pregnant mother, the scream of a motherless child

The trickle of goat’s milk, the sigh of the dispossessed

The mumble of fear, the murmur of distrust

The grumble of empty stomachs, the splash of spent blood

The sounds of a scramble for life

Amid the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

We hear the snarl of a bullet, the snap of a trigger

The thump of lead tearing into flesh, the grinding bite of steel into bone

The sudden crump of unseen mines, the constant moan of riddled skies

The hiss and crackle of angry flames, and the staccato cough of smoking ruins

The whisper of desolation, the sounds of civil war

Despite the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

We hear the bleating of a lamb, and the splitting of a womb

The death of a lamb, and the breaking of a tomb

The beginning of an end, and a word that carries healing

The taste of a mystery, and a God who has feeling

In the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

Yet we still listen for the bursting of joy

And watch for the bubbling smile of release

The happy laughter of children’s voices

The dancing among willows, and the surprise of freedom

The shout of the mountains, and the scream of a new birth

The leap of our spirit, and the whirl of celebration

We still listen to God

The sounds of the celebration of God

And the breaking of bread, and the gushing of wine

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Yaffle

Yaffle

Beady-eyed head bobber

Persistent beaky nodder

Large lawn-digging pecker

Ever watchful and waiting

Not greater nor lesser spotted

But sheen of green and crest of red

With your hoarse, chattering cry

As you take sudden umbrage

At my presence in your ground

And fly swooping to the trees

Where you call bitterly

Complaining, to your mate

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Parsnip, Thyme & Cheese Loaf

Recipe for: PARSNIP, THYME & CHEESE LOAF

Ingredients:

• 1 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 large onion, peeled & very finely chopped
• 180g self-raising flour
• ½ tsp salt
• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
• 50g hard cheese (goat’s, cheddar, parmesan, or a mixture)
• 180g parsnip (peeled & grated)
• Fresh ground black pepper
• 1 egg, lightly beaten
• 2-3 tblsp milk

 Method:

1. heat oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ 350F/ gas 4
2. heat oil in frying pan & sauté the onion gently until soft & lightly coloured, stirring occasionally – about 10-15 minutes.  Remove from heat & allow to cool
3. in a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt, thyme, cheese, parsnip & some pepper
4. add the cooked onions & mix thoroughly
5. beat the egg lightly with the milk, then add to the dry mixture
6. mix to form a soft dough, but do not overwork. Just bring together with your fingers and a very light knead
7. shape into a small round, then place onto an oiled baking sheet
8. bake for 40-45 minutes, until the loaf is golden & makes a hollow sound when tapped on the bottom
9. leave to cool on a wire rack, before slicing

 What else you need to know:

1. serve warm or cold, spread with butter and a deep bowl of soup

The Staff

The Staff

I’m a very busy man these days,

Working twenty-four seven earning a dime -

I’d like to do so many things,

But I simply don’t have the time.

I don’t have a minute unoccupied:

There are books un-read upon my shelf,

So I get others to do things for me,

That I can’t get round to myself.

Mrs Clegg comes in to do the ironing,

With folding and creasing she’s got the nous -

She drops things off at the dry-cleaner’s,

And there’s another lady cleaning the house.

Her husband is outside, doing the garden:

He’s here early, from when the day dawns,

And he’s still here in the evening

In order to get finished the lawns.

I have all the groceries delivered,

Because there’s no chance to nip to the shop -

It keeps the local economy going,

For my life never seems to stop.

My accountant does my all my tax returns,

To make sure the figures aren’t funny -

I don’t get chance to look at the papers -

I’m far too busy just earning the money.

I use people with the right expertise,

For being wealthy that’s a great perk.

I get things done professionally -

Like the government, I outsource the work.

The girl next door does the baby-sitting,

And a lady comes round to walk the dog.

I find that the task just takes far too long,

And I don’t have time to go out for a jog.

I’ve got a subscription at the gym,

But it takes far too long going there,

So my trainer does the exercise for me,

Well – it saves on all the wear and tear.

I record everything that’s on the TV,

And I’ve got a huge collection of CDs.

I’m using some-one to listen to them for me,

Then to make a start on the box-set DVDs.

  

I have a faithful old house-keeper too:

She makes the beds, and in the evening she cooks,

And, because I’ve simply no time for leisure,

She’s reading her way through my books.

You can employ someone to do anything,

Provided that you’re happy to pay.

For example, I can’t take a break from my work,

So I’ve got a young chap taking my holiday.

It saves all the time of travelling -

He’s relaxing in the Caribbean sun.

I’ve given him plenty of money to spend,

To make sure he enjoys all of my fun.

You see – I’ve got everything sorted!

My life is organised very fine -

I just wish that I was able to enjoy it,

But I simply don’t have the time!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

A Moment

A Moment

His troubles are but small: the ache of his back, the crack of his knee,

the numbness of his hands in the coldness of water, and the slippery shiver of his fingers

as he struggles to bait the hook securely, his keep-net still empty

then the whispering, glistening slip of line from the rod’s end

into the blackness of the lake

Impervious to the calling of geese behind him in the reeds

and the lapping waves, slapping the sides of the dinghy

bobbing gently, a mile out from shore

he soon detects the steady throb of diesels

the pleasure-cruiser emerging from behind the headland

silhouetted by the setting sun

He squints and shades his eyes, straightens up to stare reluctant

at this disturbance to his evening solitude

but still raises his unencumbered arm, in greeting or salutation

a vague communication to me across the water, the one man yet out on deck

then drops down roughly into the boat, bracing himself, to keep things steady

before the bow-wave buffeting that will come

as we glide past and leave him to his fishing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Villages

Villages

Rolling through the broken landscape, the old road cracked at the edges,

surface cratered with potholes, hard-used and neglected

our progress precarious

A village –

the people curious and suspicious, houses broken and shell-holed

tarpaulins, ropes on the roofs, rusted, corrugated sheets bound into walls

pungent smoke from crumbling chimneys, old carpets draped in doorways

hunger in their eyes

The track twisting and turning, churning mud under tyres

the engine labouring, my arm aching from shifting the gears

my back breaking from the rolling and pitching

but moving forward

Another village –

no people, or perhaps hidden from view

echoes in the emptiness, smells of scattered straw

dirt and dung piled in the streets, the burnt black ribs of a house

deserted amid the rubble

Straighter again before plunging downhill through a gulley, arched by trees,

darkness for a few moments, flickering light dappling the windscreen

emerging at the foot of a valley

the car rolling and rattling

And another village –

tents here but no buildings, the women washing clothes in the river

their faces gritted with effort, bodies shivering with cold from the water

regard us with envy and disdain, their menfolk nowhere to be seen

danger in the darkness

Right foot down quickly, thankfully, left behind

in the fumes of our escape, diesel exhaust and dust

headed for the distant lights of town

blockades, barricades, checkpoints, the only things remaining

between ourselves and sanctuary

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 17th March 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 17^th March 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Transport difficulties for D-Town citizens are expected this week, after the entire fleet of double-decker buses on the 49 route were restricted to their home garages, following a spate (two) of crashes involving these vehicles.  It has already been established, following initial enquiries into the minor mishap on the A342 on Thursday that, under certain special circumstances, these buses may suddenly accelerate beyond their designed limit of 27mph.  Drivers have reported finding that they were suddenly going faster than they had intended, merely by touching the accelerator pedal.  A fleet of replacement single-deckers has been organised for the coming week, and the bus company has assured the travelling public that their drivers would continue to find several other means of behaving like utter bastards.

2.      Self-confessed football fan and local idiot Ben Dover was fined nearly £10 banned from attending any football matches for three days after pleading guilty to common assault on Monday at D-Town Magistrates Court.  He was accused of running on to the pitch in the middle of D-Town’s crunch local derby match with Trowvegas Town in a bottom-of-the-table clash in the Germolene League Division 7 (South), and clipping his own son (who was playing in the match) round the ear and verbally abusing the youngster.  He apologised and said that it had been “a moment of madness” when the boy had missed a critical tackle in the 34^th minute.  D-Town went on to lose the match 1-0, falling to a controversial 94^th-minute penalty.  After the court hearing, the guilty man commented that “we were lucky to score nil”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

If Only...

If Only…

If only… he’d got out of bed in the mornings

And gone for a run in the sunshine

Just a few miles to get the heart beating

And the muscles more finely toned

If only… he’d never started smoking

And forsaken the twenty a day

Given his lungs a break from the poison

And avoided the tobacco and tar

If only… he’d not developed a taste for the beer

Not drunk so many pints in a night

Missed out on the intake of alcohol

Ah, yes, if only he’d looked after himself better

He might have led a healthier life

If only… he had taken his chances

When they had presented themselves

Had taken the risk by gambling

Double or quits on the turn of a card

If only… he had backed the horses that won

The ones that romped home by a mile

Or piled in another few coins

To the machine that was due to pay out

If only… he’d remembered to buy a ticket

And pick out his usual numbers

That week they came up in the lottery

A double roll-over jackpot

Ah, yes, if only he’d speculated

He might have been so much wealthier

If only… he’d been brave enough

To speak his mind when he saw her

To ask her to walk out with him

And to be the special one in his life

If only… he’d been sure enough

To value her above all of the others

To want to spend the rest of his life with her

And given her the whole of his heart

If only… he’d asked her to marry him

And set up a home life together

To have and to hold from that day forward

Ah, yes, if only he’d asked her

He might have been much luckier in love

If only… he’d seized life by the scruff of the neck

If only… he’d squeezed out the juice of the fruit

If only… he’d tried that little bit harder

Things might have been so much different for him

He might have been healthier,

Wealthier and loved by the world

He might have felt a sense of fulfilment

That he’d drained life to the dregs

That he’d truly lived

Ah, yes, if only…

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Split

Split

the sudden chasming of the Earth

the falling away of land, the breaking ground

from its sharp, precipitous edge

a vertiginous rim

looking down into the stomach-churning void

to the deepest valley bottom

far, far below the vantage point

almost beyond the power of the naked eye

is still the greatest shock

and a glory indescribable

a level, monotonous landscape

fools to deceive, carries no warning

conceals within its folds a feature

the volume of a mountain range of rock

a massive hole of empty space

an accident of geology in its prehistoric making

a crack, a gash, a split, a weather-riven wedge

canyon crack in the planet’s crust

trench of impossible scale

seduces the senses with its shimmering blues and greys

a shifting drift of haze making mist of distance

belying its terrible depth

down, down into the abyss

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Chocolate, Orange & Hazelnut Biscotti

Recipe for: BISCOTTI - Chocolate, Orange & Hazelnut Biscotti

Ingredients:

·        50g ground almonds

·        20g cocoa

·        180g plain flours

·        ½ tsp baking soda

·        2 eggs

·        100g sugar

·        1 orange

·        50g toasted hazelnuts

·        50g chocolate chips

Method:

1.      Heat the oven to 180C/ 170C fan

2.      In one bowl mix together the ground almonds, cocoa, flour & baking soda

3.      In a second large bowl whisk together the eggs & sugar

4.      Tip the flour mixture into the eggs & sugar & mix together

5.      Grate in the zest of the orange, then all of its juice

6.      Add the toasted hazelnuts and chocolate chips

7.      Mix everything together well

8.      Line a large baking sheet with baking parchment

9.      Using wet hands knead the mixture, then shape into a long, thin loaf

10.   Place onto the parchment & bake for 30 minutes

11.   Take the “loaf” out of the oven & very carefully slice into thin pieces

12.   Lay the pieces flat on the parchment & bake at 130C for 15 minutes

13.   Remove from oven & allow to cool

What else you need to know:

1.      The slices should have dried out and be hard & crispy

2.      Eat with coffee or tea, or with a glass of chilled white wine

Red Shoes

Red Shoes

It’s a strange kind of wanting

An emptiness you could call it

But there is a hankering I have

A longing, a long-held desire

To complete my wardrobe

And fulfil a need I’ve had since youth

But had not the means

And when I knew no better

I must have a pair of red shoes

To peer out shyly from my denims

And show the world that I still have some style

And that I am still alive

But they cannot be bright or brazen

The wrong shade, not Royal Mail red

But dark as ox-blood, deep as bleeding

Soft, gentle tongues

Lurking beneath eyelets

With laces pulled through

And carefully tied with double bows

Hard soles and calf-leather uppers

To embrace my aging feet

And carry me through

Until I need footwear no longer

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Weather Warning!

Weather Warning!

I used to fall asleep to the weather forecast,

Barely noticed what they had to say,

Just slightly interested in one thing -

What would be the conditions for next day?

On the BBC it was just information,

There was really no need to get frantic,

About average temperatures,

The fronts coming in from the Atlantic.

But now things seem to have changed quite a lot,

The language has turned rather urgent,

The Met Office is sexing things up,

And talking about a “weather event”.

Rain has become “precipitation”,

Gales have suddenly become “cyclones”:

It’s all about “threat levels” and “warnings” -

I can feel annoyance through my bones.

The jet-stream’s gone all over the place,

They’ve ramped it up to a third-tier “yellow”.

“It’s all because of global warming”

The presenters are ready to bellow.

It sounds like a national emergency,

Extreme freezing due to climate change,

Bulletins filled with hyperbole,

Exaggeration that’s out of the range.

Severe conditions are a “weather bomb”,

Fahrenheit has become centigrade,

The “alert” level rises to “amber”,

Dire predictions are being made.

Panic sets in over a very slight frost,

Melodramas over the isobars,

Alarmist language because of the storms,

The jeopardy in store for the cars.

Hysteria if it drops below zero,

Or if there’s “severe cold weather action” -

We’ll soon be at warning-level “red”,

If things change by just a fraction.

The weather-men seem surprised about this -

It’s time we put them all in the dock.

This is the usual pattern, you know,

Not really a surprise – no shit Sherlock!

We might expect a bit of a cold snap:

Blizzards, snow-drifts, maybe some floods.

It’s on a par with the Pope being catholic,

And bears taking a crap in the woods!

We live in the Northern hemisphere!

This chilliness to us is no stranger,

We’re familiar with these conditions,

And we’re not really in any danger.

It’s good advice to wrap up nice and warm -

We might consider an overcoat,

Perhaps a scarf, or maybe some gloves,

Carry an umbrella would get my vote.

We might have to scrape the car’s windscreen,

Inconveniences in a many a guise,

But I’m sure we’ll work our way through it -

After all, it’s hardly a surprise!

We’re British! Resilient and hardy!

We can cope! We know how to do it!

We’ll use our common sense and survive -

Somehow, yet again, surely we’ll get through it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Early

Early

Risen dawn-early to get about the jobs that must be done

in pale thin ghost-light, ice-coldness ,

an echoing emptiness, mocking the night before

of fire-lit warmth and conviviality

in the sharp, crisp-hard silence of morning

each sound re-sounding, ringing hollow

The chores of clearing up and cleaning out the grey grate

of soot and cold embers, a grim dismembered mess of cinders

the chill cold of metal brush and pan, tar-blackened pokers and tongs,

the clang and scrape of the battered ash bucket,

scratched and dirty shovel standing at attention to do its duty

shifting clinkered residues, and making way for the laying of new materials

for a future conflagration

Grimy newsprint , candle-ends under criss-crossed kindling

cradling the careful stook of splintered logs

creamy grain, hard-twisted knots, backed by soft-lichened bark

of once-glorious greenwoods

rough-scabbed surfaces scratching fingers and scuffing dirty knuckles

the colourless morning, bleak and bleached,

leaching into harsher daylight

an involuntary shiver at the deadness of things

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019