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 2012

Foxy, Foxy

One of the joys of living in the country is the wildlife. I'm hanging out of the back door, shouting for the cat to come in and get his tea when, instead, a huge dog fox calmly emerges out of the trees about thirty feet away from me.  As I gawp at him, he calmly walks across the lawn, stopping a couple of times for a look around, then vanishes into the trees at the other side.  Wonderful.

Reynard

Emerging through a hole in the fence

Under the mist-harbouring trees

Following his usual route

He trots confidently into the open

Pausing in his transit of the track-way

To stop and take stock of his world 

This is no creeping, crawling, skulking specimen

Engaged in crepuscular activities

But bold as brass in broad daylight

A huge dog-fox in full fig

Confident, setting the world at defiance

Unafraid, un-hunted and un-hurried 

His muzzle hangs open, panting gently

His eyes glinting and flashing

Reflecting afternoon sunlight

Wild, alert, fiercely alive

Nose, ears at full attention

Looking and listening

Appraising the scents carried on the breeze

The direction, the lie of the land

The prospects for further hunting

And scavenging forays

Among the local hen-houses

And rabbit-burrows

Which lie within his rural realm 

Head turning slowly

He directs his guileless glance

Towards the exact point

Where I am watching him

Silently, hardly daring to breathe

Burning his steady stare into my eyes 

Then, as if he hears the distant vixen

Nursing quarrelsome cubs

Calling to him from the earth

He slips away, back into the trees

With a flamboyant flash of his tail

As if he had never been there

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

The Loneliness Of The Deserted Woman

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 2012

Mackerel with Harissa Couscous

Recipe for: MACKEREL with Harissa Couscous

Ingredients: 

• Mackerel fillets (2 per person), de-boned
• 3 tblsp olive oil
• Grated zest & juice of one lime (or lemon)
• Sml bunch spring onions, chopped
• 1 tblsp harissa paste (or more to taste)
• 125g couscous (serves 2)
• 400ml hot vegetable stock
• 3 tblsp chopped coriander, inc stalks

Method: 

1. heat grill to high
2. lightly oil a baking tray
3. place mackerel fillets on tray, skin-side up
4. if fillets are large, put a couple of diagonal slashes across the fish
5. rub fillets with a little olive oil
6. season with salt & pepper
7. grate over the lime zest and drizzle over a little of the juice
8. allow to marinate for five minutes before grilling 3-5 minutes, depending on size (no need to turn the fillets – the fish should cook through from the skin-side)
9. meanwhile make the harissa couscous:
10. in a lidded casserole dish, fry half the spring onions, harissa & coriander stalks in a little oil until beginning to soften
11. tip in the couscous and stir to coat in the hot oil
12. add the hot stock, stirring to mix evenly
13. remove from the heat, cover with a lid and leave for five minutes
14. while the couscous is swelling, put the mackerel under the grill to cook
15. after five minutes, fluff up the couscous with a fork, adding a knob of butter, the rest of the lime juice and the rest of the spring onions and coriander
16. serve the mackerel over a pile of couscous

What else you need to know: 

1. you can add other things to the couscous – finely chopped peppers, mushrooms etc
2. serve with a side-dish of mixed mushrooms or a salad

A Bit Mystical.......

Walking at Avebury

Dark and dreary December afternoon,

Weak, slanting sunshine that begins to fail,

Walking around the circles at Avebury,

Amid sarsen standing stones in shadows pale.

Light snow covering the lonely landscape,

Earth is robed in its ghostly cover,

The jagged monuments standing starkly,

Embracing the silence, like a lover. 

Most of the visitors have now departed,

The pub and the car parks all deserted,

Rushing home to New Year’s Eve festivities,

Whilst here is soon to calm reverted.

In the weakening light, my mind plays tricks,

And imagines ancient figures walking,

Carrying out some ritual practice,

Whispering, gesturing, and talking. 

Slowly, the place returns to ancient times.

Peopled again, the circle starts to fill,

And my eyes are drawn to the deep South-West,

And the brooding bulk of Silbury Hill.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky,

Stands the giant earth-work, the great mystery,

A monument built by many thousand hands,

Speaking to me still from beyond pre-history. 

And the avenue of stones, leading away,

Stretching off beyond my current sight,

Through the chalk-land, into the far distance,

Disappearing, almost, into moonlit night.

Perhaps towards Stonehenge, or the barrows,

Across the Downs, through the deserted land,

With some deeper meaning or purpose,

That we still cannot understand. 

Did these shadow people build these ancient structures,

And did they move the earth to make this massive ditch?

What is the purpose of these megaliths?

Is there a symbolic meaning rare and rich?

Are these stones placed exactly where they are,

In a circle of precise refinement,

Because of certain heavenly signs,

Which required a particular alignment? 

I watch these unknown men of yesterday,

Creating such things with roughened hands,

Carving out this place of mysteries,

From the cold and unforgiving lands.

Their ceremonials mean naught to me;

As I watch the graceful gestures of their priest.

I hear the chanting, musical singing;

The fires burn bright, and they fall to feast. 

Is this rite about the living, or the dead?

Are they looking back, or to their New Year?

This solstice-time pagan celebration

Must have a purpose which to them is clear.

Such great gathering of tribal men,

Of crops, of seasons, of death and of birth.

To propitiate their shadowy gods,

Or worship the Sun, the Moon or the Earth? 

But I cannot ask – they are only ghosts;

Their figures disappear from present view.

My mind comes slowly back to current times,

And I view the archaeology anew.

By now, the place is dark and desolate.

I shiver against the penetrating cold.

I turn away to take my journey home,

And reflect on these great people of old.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

It's That Time Of Year Again

I've just realised that this poem sounds a little pervy, but it wasn't meant that way.

It’s That Time Again

It’s summer again and the sun is quite hot:

It’s a very special time of the year,

When I’m dreaming of young bodies,

And I just want them to be near. 

Yes, the heat is on,

I’ve got the urge to be there again.

My blood is up,

And I’ve selected,

To get re-connected,

For to see them I’ve got a great yen. 

To see and hear those young ladies,

Yes -that’s what I’m hunting.

With their moaning and groaning,

Their cries, and even their grunting. 

The agony and the ecstasy,

As they show off in their short skirts,

And all in the tightest underwear -

You’d think that it must hurt. 

For, despite all of the dangers,

And the presence of strangers,

It’s clear that I yearn,

Whilst waiting my turn,

To see some darling young honey,

And to hand over a pile of my money. 

The fittest bodies are a fine sight,

Just the thing to whet the appetite.

And with every peek,

And every shriek,

And of course the sweat,

That’s what you get.

You forget,

For a year and then –

It’s Bloody Wimbledon again!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 24th June 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 24^th June 2012

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

·         Ivor Grove, Bromham’s Chief Education Officer, shocked colleagues on both sides of the Parish Council chamber on Thursday when he announced a plan to re-introduce bullying and thrashing into Bromham’s schools, in what is widely seen as an attempted return to the good old days of education.  It is understood that more advanced plans to bring in a system of fagging will be introduced in the next two years.

·         The comedian Jimmy Tractor took time out from his record-breaking tour of stand-up gigs in North Wiltshire to make a public statement on his tax affairs, when it was revealed by most of the regulars in The Wounded Ferret that he was involved in a complex tax avoidance scheme, which involved offshore parsnips.  “I have made a major error of judgement,” he stated, “in gossiping about my tax affairs down the local.  In future I will keep my vegetable avoidance schemes to myself.”

·         The only branch of the Bromham Bank stayed open for an extra ten minutes on Saturday afternoon after a major hardware glitch.  Staff found that the padlock and chain normally used to secure the metal grille on the front door had become tangled up.  Experts were brought in from the surrounding area before the problem was solved with a pair of bolt-cutters and a liberal amount of brute force.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

In The Spirit Of Adventure

This poem is basically a short story and was written in response to a challenge for a poetry competition.  It did well enough to be published, so I'm modestly proud of it!

Boys Will Be Boys

 
Long, lazy, summer-time, school holidays,

Feeling frowsy in the long dry grass, so bored.

Waiting, languidly, for things to happen:

The itch for excitement that cannot be ignored.

It’s time for adventure, or some trouble:

Thrills don’t just come, so need to be sought out.

They all wanted to be a part of it,

None of them by cowardice caught out. 

Who’s leading, who’s following, who’s daring?

Who’s going to be involved quite fully?

Who’s pushing who to make the first move?

Who’s the scaredy-cat, and who’s the bully?

It’s become a matter of honour to go,

No-one wants to appear the baby child,

Egging each other onwards to the place,

Three boys, scared to hold back, running wild. 

The house stands deserted and forlorn,

Behind its barrier of tangled wire,

Its broken windows like empty sockets,

Tumble-down, decrepit and so dire.

It’s a simple target to be raided,

Undergrowth to keep them quite hidden,

Forcing down the old, broken back door,

Past where it says “Entry Is Forbidden”. 

Plaster has fallen away from dirty walls,

Damp, mouldy, a smell that’s musty,

Broken floor-boards, glass everywhere,

Mouse-droppings, filthy and dusty.

Here was once the lounge, now long deserted,

A kitchen with many pipes hanging out.

They don’t think about the people who lived here,

Too busy exploring, and running about. 

Here is a place with possibilities,

A secret space for a ghoulish game.

No limit to a child’s imagination,

Or the ideas that are in the frame.

A new head-quarters for their gang,

A pirate’s cave, or hidden treasure,

A robber’s den, a secret hideaway,

To torture their enemies at leisure. 

But what if someone already comes here?

Beggars, or thieves or a filthy tramp?

How can it be made safe and secure?

How to establish their own camp?

Rooms up above must be inspected,

In case someone else is hiding there.

Their voices fall into edgy silence,

Gathering below the bottom stair. 

The youngest one is pushed up to the front,

Nervous and trembling, fearing the worst,

The older ones standing right behind him,

Bullying, taunting, making him go first.

He wants to decline this stupid challenge,

His fear is building, and he feels like crying,

But the others will not let him stop now:

He cannot get away – no sense in even trying. 

Then, too soon, it’s spinning out of control,

They threaten him with torture, calling names.

Challenging him, shoving him forward,

It’s gone beyond their normal childish games.

The mood has turned quite nasty,

And the laughter has faded away.

They prod him and push him upwards,

They force him – they will have their way.

He bites his lip, and swallows hard.

Though he is trembling and shaking,

He starts to mount the broken risers,

Fearing the dangerous steps he’s taking.

Near the top, his panic rises,

But he never hears the creaking sound,

As he falls through the crumbling structure,

Screaming, arms flapping all around. 

A crashing noise and then the silence,

The dust and debris soon stop falling,

The older boys stand stunned, amazed,

Then for their friend start yelling, calling.

He does not answer, lying there quite still.

They know the situation’s far from good:

They run away in a frantic panic,

Leaving the body in its pool of blood.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Jus' Watchin' The World Go By.........

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 constant soundtrack of the machine

Grinding and gurgling, brewing long shots of espresso

Americano, Mocha and Latte

The counter filled with cakes, chocolates and teas

And cups, mugs and spoons clanking

Clattering in saucers carefully carried away 

Singles sit quietly, stirring froth

Peering into phones or computers

Thinking of their different lifestyles

Absorbed in the not-here

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 rushing away 

The coming and going briefly pauses

The noise drops down  to a whisper

Leaving chairs at awkward angles

A rare respite in operations

The barrista sighs, wiping his brow

And a waitress clears the tables

Wiping surfaces as she goes

Behind the receding tide

Of floating humanity

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Things That Go Bump In The Night.......

Night Terrors

Floating through the numbness of drifting dreams,

Softly billowing, falling and rising,

Seeking, searching, following a distant figure,

Reaching out towards the tantalising.

Then the crack of sound which startles,

The snap of sudden, startled waking,

Bolt upright in the tangle of sheets,

Listening hard, to a silence that’s breaking. 

Heavy, deep, suffocating blackness,

Pierced by the thinnest slice of moonlight

Through a curtain-crack not closed,

Creating shadowy shapes within the night.

Thick, breathing stillness,

Then a creak upon the stair.

A catch of breath -

Is there somebody there? 

The house settling, moaning and groaning,

A catalogue of clicks and ticks.

Sounds from out of the silence,

Or is it the mind just playing tricks?

And, from outside, (the night is barely quiet now) -

The scratchings and callings and shufflings,

Of badgers and mice,

Of owls and foxes,

Their scrapings and diggings and snufflings. 

The swishing of wind as it blows through the trees,

And the tapping of twigs against the pane,

A gentle pittering and pattering,

That might be just the winter rain.

But what was that?

Yet stranger sounds abound.

Perhaps those unwelcome creatures, the rats.

Wandering, investigating, nosing around,

Stoats, weasels, bats or meandering cats 

They are out there, safe where they belong,

In the kingdoms they inhabit,

But then, from somewhere out the distance,

The searing scream of captured rabbit.

And, inside now, fear and tension rising.

Blood pumping,

Heart thumping,

Ears straining,

Mind working overtime,

And a sense of terror gaining. 

Was that a subtle movement?

Something just over there?

Is something hidden in the shadows?

Is there really somebody there?

Or has a primal imagination,

Seeking to penetrate the gloom,

Created something super-natural,

Standing there across the darkened room? 

So scared, forgetting how to breathe,

Unable to swallow, starting to shiver,

Limbs stiff, skin chilled, eyes out on stalks,

Fingers kneading bed-clothes, all a-quiver.

Straining hard to distinguish every sound,

Listening, thinking, hoping, guessing,

An eerie quiet now descending,

Perhaps portending something more distressing? 

Primitive and primordial fear,

That traces roots from inside the womb.

Terrors of torment and lingering death,

Staring at the black inside of one’s tomb.

Dying alone – the dark, deepest dread

That everyone cradles inside.

Fear of the dying, more than the dead,

The unspoken horror we all seek to hide. 

Was that a door slamming, a bang or a bump?

A noise unfamiliar, or unknown?

Or was the whole thing inside of my head,

Created by demons all of my own?

There’ll be no sleep further tonight:

Ghouls and ghosts may wander at will.

Perhaps there’s nobody there after all,

But the mind won’t believe that, cannot be still.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011

Bonfire

Bonfire                                              

Cool, calm, short winter day,

Wood, waste, weeds on the fire,

Cleaning up garden detritus,

Piling them on the pyre. 

Flames flicking, licking the leaves,

Smouldering, spluttering, smoking,

Throwing out gases and fumes,

Wheezing, coughing and choking. 

Eyes watering and damp,

Smoke and steam in the air,

Getting too near the fierce heat,

Singeing eyebrows and hair. 

Leaves and branches catching,

Wood crackling, bark cracking,

Twigs breaking, snapping,

Greying and blacking. 

Consumed by the inferno,

Noises quite troubling.

Sap escaping and hissing,

Oozing, boiling and bubbling. 

Feeding the fire, adding the fuel,

Working through the waiting stash.

Destroying everything fed to it,

Reducing all to glimmering ash. 

What’s rotten, what’s rubbish,

Infestations of grubs and of bugs,

Contagions of parasites,

Creepy-crawlies and slugs. 

Logs gently hunkering down,

As they slowly dismember.

Fire blazing, burning and charring,

Settling to black and red ember. 

Now a rising smoke signal,

Showing the task as complete,

Nature’s waste products,

Disappearing in that searing heat. 

Cleansing, cleaning, clearing,

Consuming, eating with ease,

Twisting, turning and burning,

Killing off the rot and disease.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Strange Memories

Sunday School

The dead time after Sunday lunch

Lies heavy on the day

And Dad sits reading his paper

Absorbing sordid stories of fights and fornication

Waiting for the house to fall to rest

While Mum does her fussing about

Busy but pre-occupied

About the coming afternoon alone with Dad

Washing and wiping my face

Polishing my appearance

Dressing me in Sunday Best

Transforming a rowdy child into a little angel

A reflection of a clean and happy home 

Sent off through the silent streets

On my best behaviour

To walk to Sunday School

And receive religious education

With a promise of sweets if I’m good

And possible Hell if I’m bad

But definitely no tea, and early to bed 

A Methodist Chapel built in stone

Soot-blackened among the houses

Its grey doors opening into the hall

Of musty smells and dusty floors

Little classrooms with metal-frame windows

Hard chairs and benches

Like real school, but less fun

Cheerless and comfortless

To hear stories, miracles and parables

Chapter and verse

Read from a black-backed bible

Of Jesus and Jerusalem

Mary and Joseph

And the meaning of love for one another 

Then, topped up with goodness for another week

Running home for some play before tea

To strain the last dregs from the day

And wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down 

No interest in what I’ve been doing

The hymn-singing and prayers

The collection for the missionaries in Africa

But a strained atmosphere at the tea-table

Mum walking on eggshells again

And Dad not speaking, staring into the fire

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

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 2012

News From Bromham - dateline Sunday 17th June 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 17^th June 2012

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

·         Excitement boiled over in the village this week when plans were announced for the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 Carnival.  Tristram Piglet, the famous film director, who has his holiday home in Bromham, and who has been coerced into designing the opening sequence, has revealed his scheme, based on the theme of “Bromham in Bloom”.  It will feature several displays of massed vegetables, including an imaginative use of carrots in a picture of an owl.  The display is expected to be seen by a Wiltshire-wide audience of nearly 70 people.

·         People across the village have gone back to the polls today.  After the failure by all parties to form a Parish Council six weeks ago, it is hoped that this renewed election will allow the Council to move forward.  Political commentators outside the area have widely interpreted this as effectively a referendum on Bromham’s continued membership of Wiltshire celery standard.  Voters are faced with a stark choice: either to elect councillors who will reject Wiltshire’s imposed austerity measures on celery, or whether to pull out of growing celery altogether.  Villagers seem unable to decide, but none of them likes celery anyway.

·         Sport:  Bromham Casuals’ shock 3-2 win over The Swedes on Friday night, even without star striker Dwayne Mooney, means that they continue to harbour slim hopes of reaching the Quarter Finals of the West Wiltshire Doggybix Cup.  A massed crowd of nearly seven people gathered in the Social Centre to listen to live radio commentary on Carrot FM, and wild scenes erupted when the final score came through.  Either that, or it was closing time before the final leg of the skittles game had been completed.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

The Day The Juice Ran Out

Powerless

An empty calm descends

The house cooling and falling into silence

As motors cease their humming

TV and radio dumbing down

Their chatter and bulletins

Hushing to join this armistice

Of quiet within the day 

Juice no longer in the wires

Plugs and sockets redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying unused, discarded

Their life-force spent

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away 

No energy, nor electrons flowing,

No easy electrical force

No pumps or motive power

No timers, clocks or lights blinking

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components lying still

As if awaiting further instructions 

A deathly hush ensues

Through empty rooms and corridors

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Its clockwork power beating out the passing time

In the darkening, gloomy light

As the quiet falls heavy and unsettling

With a presence of its own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Sea And Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind wind-breaks

On candy-stripe deck-chairs
Naked toes wriggling in the cold sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches ahead

From the sea-wall to a distant horizon                                                                            

Optimistic sun-hats and lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers
In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of wary teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

 

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide comes back in again

The waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the general retreat

 

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Before heading to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards a blackened sea

 

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The waft of vinegar sharp and pungent

Competing with the fresh seaside air

Seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

 

Later licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where one-armed bandits eat piles of tanners

Before being driven back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

 

Reading every comic card on the twirling stands

A quick game of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Sauntering back slowly

To kill more time before facing high tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

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 2012