Trout With Herbs & Lemon

Recipe for: TROUT with HERBS & LEMON

Ingredients:

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

 Method:

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

 What else you need to know:

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

Endless Day

Endless Day

Waking early, escaping hours of restless sleep

Shuffling down stairs in threadbare slippers

And faded dressing gown

To face another tedious day

She makes tea in the old brown pot

And sits at the empty kitchen table

Staring out through the cobwebbed window

Lambent rays of dawn

Flirt with the dark horizon

Struggling to get another daytime under way

Only slowly lighting the cloudy sky

Heavy with coming rain

The silence sits oppressive

And darkness gathers round

She ignores the gently dripping tap

As she drinks a second cup

And smokes a cigarette

Reflecting on the empty day ahead

The hours yet to be traversed

The quiet to be endured

Restlessly wandering from room to room

Sometimes standing, shiftless

Rearranging tasteless ornaments

Long since collected

Now unloved, undusted, unwanted

But something to do with her hands

To keep them from trembling

Sometimes sitting down again

Leafing through year-old magazines

Loathe to listen, minute after lingering minute

To the quiet ticking of the clock

Among the clutter on the mantel

Its hands seeming not to move

As the endless hours stretch away

For another long day with little purpose

The deserted hall, no-one to call

No letters in the mailbox

And a phone that never rings

Staring into empty space

Alone, with time to kill

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Coffee Shop

Coffee Shop

They come in waves

An ebb and flow of clientele

In and out, like a restless sea

Seeking favourite seats and corners

In the back, or near the big window

The regular morning ritual

The daily caffeine fix of choice

With standard order and loyalty card

The comforting, constant soundtrack

Of the steaming machine

The harsh grinding of Fairtrade beans

And gurgling of scalding water

Brewing long shots of espresso

Americano, Mocha and Latte

The counter filled with cakes and chocolates

And the clanking of spoons in cups and mugs

Clattering in saucers carefully carried away

Singles sit quietly, stirring froth

Peering into phones or computers

Living out their different lifestyles

Absorbed in the not-here, not-now

Thoughtful, contemplating

Playing with the sugar sachets

Or flipping idly through the papers

Ladies in twos and threes

Hustling and bustling

Amid bulging shopping and handbags

Between crowded tables

Dropping voices to a whisper

Through confidential sections

Of their general gossiping

Chatting and chattering

Lingering till lunchtime

Before suddenly rushing away

To meet a pressing engagement

Then the unexpected pause

A reduced coming and going

The noise dropping down to a whisper

Leaving chairs at awkward angles

A rare respite in operations

The barrista sighs and wipes his brow

And a waitress clears the tables

Wiping surfaces as she goes

Behind the receding tide

Of floating humanity

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Draught In The Passage

Draught In The Passage

I understand you sometimes have to wait

Because they’re not yet ready

The nurses and the doctors

Who must assemble what they need

The sterile instruments

And fill out all the paperwork

Before they can take a look at you

But why must I sit or stand

Out here in the corridor

Amid the antiseptic smells

And the wheeling of trolleys

The cool air creeping underneath

The flimsy floral curtain

Which hangs between me and the world

My rustling paper gown

Flapping open at the rear

To allow them easy access

To all my private parts?

There’s no dignity dressed like this

Procedure-ready

Prepped and medicated

No privacy when I move

Naked within my wrapper

Exposed to all and sundry

Who might observe me from behind

And gaze in silent wonder

At what I might be hiding

The goose-bumps growing bigger

From the anticipation

The suspense of waiting

But mostly from the draught

That blows into the passage

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 27th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 27^th October 2013

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

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

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

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

What Will Our Children Say?

What Will Our Children Say?

What will our children say

When they look back at us,

From the vantage-point of their tomorrows,

Towards their empty yesterdays?

Will they understand our lack of action,

The time we wasted with indecision,

And let things drift from year to year,

Missing all those warning signs?

What will our children say

When they see that we could not agree,

And how we fought amongst ourselves,

Bickering, procrastinating,

Caught in many minds,

Snared in short-term self-interest,

And how we dithered and deliberated,

As things got worse and worse,

Just calmly carrying on,

Always hoping for the best?

What will our children say

When they look at what we did,

How we didn’t even try to change things,

But carried on regardless,

With pure blind faith in new technology,

Looking blithely to the future,

To provide the answers

That we could not find today?

What will our children say

About our undirected course,

With no hand upon the tiller,

Drifting towards oblivion,

Worrying only about the cost?

How will they ever comprehend

How we let things get this bad,

Used up all Earth’s bounty,

Exhausting our lonely planet,

Leaving a dirty, dried-up cinder

To circle round the Sun?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Bit On The Side

Bit On The Side

I said that I could never do this -

Give myself up to words and waiting, wishes and whispers

Which disappear like mist in the morning

When I awake alone

With the sun rising, poking its light through blinds

Hastily drawn last night

I said that you should not come

Whenever the mood just took you

Leaving her alone with alibis

And feeble excuses

To sneak your way to me

Turning your key in my lock

To find me always alone, ever-waiting,

Desperately pleased to see you

Aching for your smile, your touch, your kiss

I said I would not live like this

Sharing short hours of stolen time

Mistress of your hidden desires

Fed by promises, endearments

And guilty late-bought offerings

A life unnaturally discreet

Behind closed doors

A kept pet within a cage

Your plaything, what you will

I said I could not exist alone

Caught between blind hope and cold despair

Bereft at your every going

Angry at each desertion

Hanging on, spoiled but tortured

Our coupling in the early evenings

No longer love nor lust, but only longing

For you to stay with me and stroke my face

And hold me through till morning

I said that I should live a life more normal

Being with you all the time

Together every day

Not just when you can steal away

To scramble all my feelings

And tangle all my sheets

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Quince Jelly

Quince Jelly 

Ingredients:

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

Method:

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

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine

To keep me from falling down

When I struggled to stand and walk

Unaided by your side

Stumbling through my early steps

I felt your hand gently touching mine

To stop me losing heart

And keeping faith with all my dreams

When I doubted my own intentions

Finding my uncertain way to you

I took your hand close within mine

To show that we would be forever joined

You and me against the world, my love

Words and promises and rings

An affirmation of intentions

I held their hands when they were small

So they should know that I was there

Other lives that looked like mine

But better, brighter in every way

My hopes for a greater future

And when I could no longer move

Nor leave this deathly cancer bed

Your hand held tightly onto mine

And you talked and talked into the night

So that I should never be alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Powerless

Powerless

Empty calm descends

Upon the cooling house

As motors cease to hum

Falling into solemn stillness

Sudden TV and radio silence

Reduced to muted dumbness

With regular bulletins hushed

Amid the sudden rush

To join the armistice

Of unexpected quiet

Within the working day

Juice no longer in the wires

Plastic plugs and sockets

Stand redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying there unused, discarded

Their life-force deserted

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away

No longer any motive power

Nor easy electronic force

No pumps or ticking timers

No clocks or blinking lights

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components

Lie unmoving

As if awaiting further instructions

Then ensues a deathly hush

Through cold and empty rooms

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Driven by its tensioned spring

Beating out the passing time

In the darkened gloom

As the quiet settles

Heavy like a layer of dust

With almost a presence of its own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Sea and Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind the flapping wind-breaks

On creaking candy-stripe deck-chairs

Naked toes wriggling in the cold damp sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches far ahead

From sea-wall to a distant horizon

               

Optimistic hats and sun-tan lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers

In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of shivering teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide

Slowly comes back in again

Its waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the reluctant retreat

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

Before climbing to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards the blackened sea

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The sharp and pungent waft of vinegar

Competing with the fresher smell of ozone

While seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

And later, licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where noisy one-armed bandits

Devour great piles of tanners

Until, bored and poorer

Driven outside again

To stroll, wind-driven

Back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

Reading every comic card

On the twirling wire stands

Before games of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Before sauntering back slowly

To kill more time, before facing high tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 20th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 20^th October 2013

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

1.       In a blow to the Government’s much-heralded flagship education policy, Bromham’s Agricultural Literal Learning School (BALLS) was forced to close this week, following an inspection visit by Ofsted.  In an often damning report, the school was criticised for:

o   Forcing male pupils to wear flat caps in class;

o   Insisting on baler twine being used to hold up pupils’ trousers;

o   Separating students in class on the basis of the number of toes they had;

o   Teaching only in the local Oo-aar dialect.

2.       And in a shock announcement, the Bromham Power Company has announced that gas and electric prices will rise by more than the rate of inflation.  Village residents were reduced to walking up and down the High Street, shaking their heads in amazement and disappointment.  This latest blow comes hot on the heels of recent discoveries that:

o   Bears have been defecating in the local woods;

o   The Pope is indeed a Catholic;

o   The cheque is in the post.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

When I Was Older

When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense

And everything kind of hung together

In a way I no longer understand

Life was serious, dull and boring

In a black and white sort of way

But it got me through the years

To get me where I am today

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was

Where I was going, what I was doing

And who was near and dear to me

I played the role of responsible adult

Father to my children, husband and provider

Worker, money-maker, decision-taker

Lover, and sometime man of leisure

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant

What mattered, and how to get things done

I knew who you were then

Why you left me and where you had gone

I hid my small box of cares and worries

And I kept the lid tightly closed

So that you should never know

But now I’m young again, things have changed around

The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out

Everything is there in full colour

I find that I have nowhere I need to go

I need not make any great decisions

Except what I should have for my dinner

And what time I’d like to go to bed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Green Is The Colour

Green Is The Colour

Green
Is the colour of the plastic

From which they make the folder

Which they give you when they tell you

That your life is about to change

And which you hold on to

As you try to grasp the meaning

Of all the words you’re hearing

Green
Is the colour of the booklets

The leaflets and the pamphlets

Which they hand to you one by one

To put inside your folder

And build up your own collection

Of cancer information

And unwanted reading material

Green
Is the colour of the typeface

Of the jaunty letter-font

The co-ordinated colour-coded logo

That someone once designed

To make it bright and accessible

For each new unwilling owner

Of this convenient carry-case

With all the colours in the rainbow

The broadest palette of shades and hues

Who ever thought that green

Might suit oncology?

Is it meant to be a positive signal?

An encouragement to carry on?

Why not choose blue, the colour of depression?

Or the blackness of deep despair?

Why not a sickening yellow?

Or the fiery red of anger?

Why not the pink of healthy tissue

Or a cautious amber?

I don’t think this is what they meant

When they asked me if I had any questions

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Fruit-flavoured Gins & Vodkas

Recipe for: VODKAS & GINS (fruit-flavoured)

                  

Ingredients:

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

Method:

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

The Shedding Of Skins

The Shedding of Skins

And what of the future

And a life that differs from the past?

To cast off the old restriction

And peel away the papery epidermis

A mere shadow of what once was

And things that went before

The thin constriction of many years

An outgrown palimpsest

A dry and crispy cracking

Of empty outer skin

The rough leavings

And abandoned bindings

Simple and superfluous

That can be left behind

Without a single thought

And to emerge renewed

Supple and slippery

Glistening smooth

A new creature escaping

Now bright-featured in appearance

But far more changed within

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Clown

Clown

Your appearance startles me

As I gaze upon your features

A painted face with rictus smile

Grease-paint make-up

Wide-eyed, red-nosed

The wig, the hat, the jacket

Huge shoes and trousers

Ill-fitting coloured garb

Exaggerated, extravagant and eccentric

Your gestures make me flinch

Wild anarchic actions

Expansive and grotesque

Slapstick prat-falls, tumbling

To the crash of cymbals

Fool, comedic fall-guy

Miming pain and sorrow

A parade of emotions

And silent appeals to the comic gods

The crowd’s reaction does not move me

Their laughter growing

Building to crescendo

Faces smile-illuminated

Marvelling at the timing

Of the crazy performance

Within the circus ring

Watching Whiteface and Auguste

Conducting clowning chaos

But your deadpan muzzle leaves me cold

Your sinister expression

Raises phobic fear and terror

My voice sticks in my throat

To me you are no joking jester

Nor clowning priest of mirth

But a chill reminder

Of a childhood nightmare

A presence from dark anarchic night

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Autumn Damp

Autumn Damp

Wet lawns await their final cut

Their long uneven shocks of grass

Harbouring windfalls

Of soft decaying garden fruit

Whose juices ooze a sweetness

Which perfumes the air

Their undersides brown and rotting

Still home to lazy drunken wasps

The droppings and sheddings

From near-naked trees

Branches standing stark against the sky

Of the early misty morning

Among the mulching mess of leaves

Shading grey then into black

A fading dark, damp mush

Food for insects and work for worms

Hunkering down into foul and stinking mess

And the rich, rank stench of dying

The rambling brambles tangling

Still scratching, snagged with over-ripened berries

Which moulder and stain the fingers

Before falling, bruised and broken

Down among bedraggled nettles

Strewn heavy with dew-droplets

And in the darker shady places

Sprout musky mushrooms

And toxic toadstools

The only livid growths

Amongst the colours of death

And now we lose the light

The chill of shorter days

Sending shivers through the cobwebs

Soggy silver hunting nets

Strewn dewy amongst the weeds

And auburn leaf-fall

The occasional flash of gold or red

Between the darker shades

Of the grim-hued palette

Of the tired ground

As it awaits the swirling fogs

That will come to embrace it

And bring the freezing kiss of Winter

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 13th October 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 13^th October 2013

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

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

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

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Waterworks

Waterworks

Is this what it has come down to?

To sit here with the others

In a crowded clinic waiting room

Full of failing bodies

Dotted among the rows of wipe-clean chairs

A parking lot of walking-frames and sticks

All here for the same reason

Worrying signs in their water-works

A range of plumbing problems

For the doctors to diagnose and fix

And nurses come and go

With their files and folders

Discreetly carrying urine samples

And the bladder test results

From patients in the toilets

Peeing and passing

Measuring inputs and outputs

After drinking endless cups of water

It’s a part of getting older

Politely called urology

But there’s little dignity

In such a personal problem

And little comfort

In the unbidden thought

That it might be cancer come to call

Or a breaking down of organ function

Perhaps another milestone

Towards journey’s end

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Badgers Moving The Goalposts

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

There’s something odd going on in the night,

And I don’t think it’s the action of ghosts,

I think I might have rumbled the culprits,

‘Cos it’s the badgers what’s moving the goalposts.

They’re fed up of being cast as the bad guys;

They say that they’re not even criminal types,

But they’re being pushed into a corner,

Just because of their black and white stripes.

They’re not playing for Newcastle United,

Nor other league teams out on the coasts.

They don’t want to be blamed as the scapegoats,

And that’s why the badgers are moving the goalposts.

They’ve had enough of government ministers,

The farmers, and other tub-thumpers,

They’re confused by all the statistics,

And the constant re-hashing of numbers.

So now they’ve called on all of their allies,

All the creatures that the countryside boasts,

And got them to sabotage the hunting,

Whilst they get on with moving more goalposts.

What if the deer changed all of the white markings,

And the foxes built a new ditch?

What if the rats ran off with the corner flags,

And the field-mice built nests on the pitch?

What if the cats and rats infested the grand-stands,

And the kestrels ruled over all as the hosts?

Then the biggest change that you’d see on the ground,

Wouldn’t be the badgers moving the goalposts.

Bad science is causing this mayhem;

But it shouldn’t cause much of a shock,

Because this is what you’ll end up with,

If you keep putting Mr. Brock in the dock.

So let’s get this cull into perspective:

Let’s not celebrate victory with toasts.

Let’s understand that it’s all a big mess -

It’s the badgers moving the goalposts!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Market Day

Market Day

Across the square, under the old Market Cross

Among white lines, yesterday reserved for the cars

An encampment of trucks and white vans

Stalls under their candy-stripe awnings

Channelling raindrops into small streams

Dripping off corners into baskets and trolleys

Shouting and calling, touting and yelling

Today’s bargains, special offers

Everything fresh from the farm

From Cox’s in boxes, bananas in bunches,

Grapes, tomatoes and pears

Eggs, bacon and ham

Puddings, pies and pasties

Sauces, pickles and jam

Milk, cheeses and honey

Flowers, veggies and fruit

Everything’s there if you’ve got money

Oily, scaly wet fish, fresh from the seas

Sharp fins, bright eyes and mouths open

All good at this price

Glittering, silver darlings

Fanned out on piles of crushed ice

Men’s outsizes, ladies’ lingerie, hats, bras, knickers and socks

Hoover bags, replacement parts, watches, batteries and clocks

Stall-holders sipping extra-sweet tea

Hugging the mugs for their warmth

Take-away bacon rolls cooling on the side

While change is quickly given

Keeping up incessant banter for the punters

A thriving cash economy

Among the strolling bargain-hunters

Hours later, the camp dismantled, the rubbish, the mess and the muck,

Brushes and brooms in the rain, and work-men with the garbage-truck

The wind whips round the deserted space

Whilst, inside, in the pub and the café

It’s time to watch someone else working

And for some hot food and a drink

A chance at last to get warm

A space to reflect and to think

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Double Agent

Double Agent

Do not be fooled by the easy manner

Or his apparently warm, affectionate nature

The well-groomed, tailored coat

Perfect hair and manicured whiskers

Nor his domesticated demeanour

Do not be taken in by his love of warmth

And cosy, comfortable, curled position

Nor his sleepy, silent gaze

As if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth

Always dozing during daylight

And rubbing round the legs at feeding time

Do not believe for one moment that his carefully managed image,

This cool, collected character, is at all what he purports to be

For Sam is a double-agent, licensed to kill

A sleeper, hiding his true identity

Lying low until Agent Moonlight gives the signal

Calls him from retirement to carry out his next assignment

Working under cover of the darkness

For another operation in a foreign field

Passing through the portal, turning his collar to the night

Nose, ears and senses all alert, carefully checking his equipment

Teeth, paws and claws, all razor-sharpened, glinting

Ready for rapid deployment, sleek and silent

He slips away without a backward glance

Leaving his safe house, out on patrol,

Round his marked and guarded territory

Eyes narrowed, focused, single-minded, ruthless

A trained professional, working alone

Driven by feral, instinctive urges

To taste fresh flesh and warm blood

Each evening before the curfew falls

This murderous, vicious assassin

Callous creeping killer in the night

Will make short work of anything that squeaks and scurries

Briefly before it dies, life throttled from its throat

Then brought back, trophy-style

To be chewed upon the killing floor

The fur and bones left undigested

Mission accomplished, victims abandoned

Honour and appetite satisfied

His shady, secret life discarded

He wanders slowly back to base

Reports in for the evening

Meanders to his sleeping quarters

Cleaning his equipment

Before, contented, curling tail beneath

Setting head upon his paws

To take his after-dinner nap

And resume his old identity

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

Squeeze the fruit, enjoy the juice,

And drink it whilst it’s fresh.

This really is that rainy day

And now, right now, is the very time

To indulge the appetite.

Do not prevaricate or hesitate,

Nor wait for some distant tomorrow.

Seize this memory,

This particular moment on this day,

This exact second when you saw and heard,

Smelt and felt this sensation.

Perhaps it will be there again another time

But you can never know for sure

And it may be lost it forever

If you let it go today.

There is no knowing what span of years is yours,

What may happen in days to come,

How long there might be still to go,

Or how close to the end

Before the force of life fails and fades,

When what holds it all together

One day will simply cease to work,

A heart no longer beating, pumping,

Driving the body to its daily workings,

Nor any longer draw in breath

As it has a million times before.

This precious thread will snap,

For it is thin and may break

At any moment, without warning.

Be careful, it is a fragile thing,

The material crumbling in your hand

Falling like dust between your fingers

Into an empty nothingness.

When the curtain finally falls,

Rehearsal over, there will be no performance.

The scene deserted, the actor gone away,

The costume lying empty

And piled inert upon the floor,

No lights, no dialogue,

No expression of emotion

And an end to thinking, feeling, aching.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013