Loose Ends

Loose Ends

I followed where you led me

and read through many chapters

towards the intended ending

which you had prepared so carefully for me

All those significant hints

and deliberately-dropped clues

pointing towards an obvious conclusion

But there was no proper resolution

nor any final denouement

and when the central character

who had held my attention

for hundreds of pages

suddenly disappeared

without warning or any explanation

And the circumstances of the story petered out

it meant leaving many lines of dialogue unspoken

actions un-done, starts un-finished

and what had been built up so far

as merely an un-completed novella

You left the plot-lines unresolved

and the warmest trails to cool

and a door not quite closed, but left ajar

where someone just went out

but never came back in again

You raised my expectations

but did not meet them

you let my hopes come to nothing

for there was to be no neat ending

and what had seemed important once

became a mess of un-connected details

which made no sense at all

The ship did not come in

The wrong people won

There were no just desserts

Just an empty feeling

open, vague, unclear

of waiting, wondering

what might have happened

to tie up all those loose ends

If only the last few pages of our story

had not been missing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The O-Word

The O-word

My medical was a total disaster: the doctor’s face turned rather grim.

It was a big fail, when I got on the scale, and he said: “you’re not very slim!”

“There’s no good way I can tell you this, although you might get yourself in a sulk,

It seems it’s your fate, to be hugely overweight: you’re the size of The Incredible Hulk.”

“I’ve tried being subtle, I’ve tried being coy, there seems no way I can get through.

Perhaps invective can be more effective?  I don’t know what else I can do!”

Then he let me have it with both barrels:  “You’re big, you’re burly, you’re chubby,

With more avoir-dupois than average, you’re chunky, not hunky, definitely tubby.”

“You’re full-faced, fat, floppy and fleshy, a big lard-arse, and as large as a barge,

You’re not finely honed, not merely big-boned, you’re a roly-poly, a great tub of marge.”

“Your size is….. amplitudinous, a chump with a bump, plus a huge rump,

A chubster, a big rounded tubster, like a partridge, My God but you’re plump!”

Sadly I looked down at my vanishing waist, and said “why do you use words such as these?

Just what is it you’re trying to tell me?  Are you saying that I may be obese?”

The doctor was completely taken aback, so he scowled, and he looked at me hard.

Then he said “you’re not listening, are you?  You king-sized great tub of lard!”

“I’m obviously not making myself clear.  Let’s say that you’re of voluminous size,

Falstaffian, Brobdignagian, it’s quite clear who ate all the pies!”

“Your expansive capaciousness goes beyond any known bound.

You’re beefy and burly, fudgy and pudgy, and it’s years since you last saw the ground!”

“Gargantuan, elephantine and mammoth are three words that may easily vex,

But they hold no candle, to your love handles, or the scale of your Body Mass Index.”

“You must eat less, and exercise more, it’s time to take a clinical stand,

Time to realise that a balanced diet does not mean a burger in each hand!”

“Your massive, mountainous diet must cease: no more chocolate or cream or fruit jellies,

Nor guacamole dips, nor fish and chips, until you’ve got rid of those bellies!”

“It’s calorie-counting from here onwards: you must drain yourself to the dregs.

You can’t make a much thinner omelette, without breaking low-cholesterol eggs!”

At last the light was beginning to dawn: I could see what he was trying to state,

So I just asked him to clarify: “Here - are you saying that I’m over-weight?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Running Away From The Circus

Running Away From The Circus

I ran away from the Circus last year -

I couldn’t stand the excitement you see.

I’d had enough of unpredictability -

From the ring-master I had to be free.

The lions and tigers kept roaring -

At night their noises kept me awake,

And the smell of droppings in the saw-dust

Was more than my nostrils could take.

The painted clowns brought me right down:

Enthusiasm I just couldn’t muster.

I started to freeze beneath the trapeze,

And sword-swallowing lost all of its lustre.

I craved a career as an accountant,

Using computers, with pinging and beeping.

It’s a real treat to work with a spread-sheet,

And rows of double-entry book-keeping.

Pencils, staplers and clean stationery

Now bring a great smile to my lips,

But better still is the enormous thrill

I get from my big pile of paper-clips.

The danger’s all gone now – that’s certainly true:

No horses or elephants to get in my way.

Now I’m frequently seen, near the coffee-machine,

Or photo-copying documents all day.

The big top now seems but a vague dream,

And to the fire-eater I owe a great debt,

But running car-hire is hardly high-wire,

And there’s no need for a safety-net.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The War In The Air

The War In The Air

I’m admitting a total defeat,

And it’s the pigeons that’s winning -

It was me that started this war,

But I’m more sinned against than sinning.

These flying rats invaded my garden,

And scared off the delicate birds.

I’ll admit I’ve never liked pigeons,

Nor treading in their copious turds.

They’re big buggers, and stupid -

I state these as obvious facts,

As I got overwhelmed by the results

Of their active digestive tracts.

It got everywhere you could think of:

So you had to pity the tiny blue-tit -

It dropped in for a dip at the bird-bath,

And ended up bathing in inches of s—t.

The greenhouse was quite covered -

It turned a strange shade of grey.

Soon the cats were wearing tin helmets,

To avoid the flak that was coming their way.

When I brought out my big air-rifle,

Behind the fence for cover they dived.

I netted, I wired, I tried to deter them,

And on the poison they simply thrived.

There was no stopping them I found:

They’ve got me trapped here in the shed,

But if I can get out of here alive,

I’ll pick a fight with the sparrows instead.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

View Of A Stranger

View Of A Stranger

It seems indiscreet to peer inside

This blue-bound diary

And read the youthful scribblings

The secret scriptures

Of a young soul seeking

What he thinks is love

Intimate and vulnerable

His tormented, tortured yearnings

Spelled out day by day

In his tight, neat handwriting

In his black and blue biros

Using the cryptic code

That is not difficult to decipher

Snooping through the writing

Prying among the pages

Of this joyless journal

I am struck by his outlook

The black and white world

Of the early Seventies

So short on subtlety

Lacking nuance

The direct and raw emotion

The hurt and the anger

The brutal honesty

Of this callow youth

Only recently a child

I marvel at his motivations

His immature ideas

And his carnal calculations

This rough, strange juvenile

Living in his different world

Thinking ugly thoughts

I could never entertain

I wonder at this person from the past

A ghost from forty years ago

And find it almost impossible

To admit the surprising truth

That I cannot recognise myself

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Arachnophobia

Arachnophobia

A gasp and then a scream

As she effects a tip-toed retreat

Fleeing from an unwelcome invader

Of alleged enormous size

Occupying prime position

Within the wash-stand bowl

Gently closing the door

An entire room now out of bounds

Until the stranded menace can be dealt with

I pity this useful household predator

This insect-eating carnivore

Which sits quite still, waiting in the whiteness

Patient, brooding, trapped

Previously the hunter

Now perhaps the hunted

Legs akimbo, mandibles unmoving

Black body segments glistening

Spinnerets suspended

Its sticky silken ropes useless

In this unyielding ceramic prison

Unable to build a ladder

To climb out and live another day

Kill it! Kill it! she cries from behind the door

Overcome by the irrational fear

Of a species she does not understand

Do not let it get away and hide somewhere

To emerge beside me when I am not looking!

Emboldened by Marigolds

I catch it quickly in a glass

Causing an instant reaction

The sudden vibration detected

Eight legs scrambling at full speed

Before I let it disappear, unharmed

Beneath the skirting

I make noises with the window-catch

And tell her that I threw it out

Announcing the threat to be defused

The area swept, secured and checked

No further need for nightmares

Another arachnid Armageddon avoided

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 24th November 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 24^th November 2013

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

1.       Twenty-seven separate enquiries have been launched into the activities of the Reverend Paul “Cauliflower” Piglet, former head of the Bromham Collective and Manual Workers’ Bank.  Piglet was last week secretly filmed attempting to buy Crack Kohlrabi and Crystal Carrots from the back of a tractor.  It has subsequently transpired that, through a ‘sting’ operation conducted by the crusading Bromham Bugle newspaper, Piglet had earlier been dismissed from his post at Bromham Parish Council after “inappropriate” images of immature vegetables and unwashed fruits were found on his laptop computer.

2.       The village was celebrating one piece of good news, however, after fighting off strong competition from at least one other place, to being awarded the prestigious title of West Wiltshire Small-to-Medium village of Culture in 2016.  A famous bloke who remembers Bromham, but has been living in that London for the past thirty years, commented that he was “very pleased”.  Another woman, whose aunt once visited Bromham on a coach trip in 1987, commented that it would be “a great boost for the place.”  The Parish Council will meet next week to discuss what the award might mean.  No-one is quite sure.

3.       And, finally, police yesterday revealed that they had finally managed to secure the release of a woman who had been held as a “psychological captive” by her husband for the past thirty years.  The woman does not have an iPad, nor a mobile phone, and has never heard of broadband or the Internet.  Whilst she shares this appalling catalogue of deprivation with many other villagers in Bromham, police said that the case was almost unique in their experience, because the woman had not been out to the cinema in all that time either.  Her husband has taken refuge in the back bar of The Wounded Ferret, and was not available for comment.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Crack

Crack

Her hesitation is palpable

A mid-air suspension

Of the lifting action

Towards the waiting lips

To allow for careful observation

And eye-screwed scrutiny

Of the faintest, finest mark

Detected upon the rim

The perimeter of porcelain

At the very edge of her Darjeeling

The thinnest line of grey

That may portend a careless hair

Or a deeper hairline crack

Starting from the cup’s lip

Almost hidden on the inside

Descending deep into the liquid

A delicate indicator

Of dirt, or perhaps disease

Harbouring germs beneath

Upon or within the glaze

Of the whitened surface

An earlier accident

Or someone’s carelessness

Cannot be determined

But is now the cause

Of her faint distaste

And this holding moment

That prevents the slightest sip

And sees the china cup

Quietly returned to its saucer

And the tea left un-drunk

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Ravished By The Storm

Ravished By The Storm

He could not have meant it

There must have been some mistake

When the newsreader

Went over to the special correspondent

The local man upon the ground

In some distant disaster zone

Whose first language was not English

And told us firmly

Across the breaking signal

That the storm had ravished the land

And it left me with a strange impression

Of a cyclone that had crept up unawares

Taken its victim by surprise

Lifted the petticoats of the land

And, despite the screams of protest

The frantic efforts to prevent it

The turning away of its face

Had forced itself upon the villages

Scratching and tearing

Bearing down its great strength

Ravaging without mercy

A relentless rapine

Unappeasable

Until it had finally spent itself

Leaving behind a broken spirit

Before it blew away

In weakened state

To build and re-gather

And terrorise another place

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

And Now For Something Completely Different....

Something Completely Different

The long wait is finally over,

It was the full two decade argument,

But they’ve managed to get it together,

And the Pythons have decided to relent.

All of them might now be in their seventies,

And it may be just a financial wheeze,

But Gilliam, Idle and Palin,

Are coming back with Jones and with Cleese.

Of course Graham Chapman couldn’t make it,

For obvious reasons we know to be true:

For some years now he’s been “just resting”

Like the old famous Norwegian Blue.

Yes he’s shuffled off this mortal coil,

After too many years of getting pissed.

He’s deceased, and gone to meet his maker,

He is no more, he’s ceased to exist.

So the rest will carry on without him,

And hope that they can all get along,

But some sketches just won’t be the same,

Take for instance The Lumberjack Song.

The Gumbys and the Piranha Brothers,

Harry “Snapper” Organs of Q Division,

Spiny Norman, a man with three buttocks,

And nobody expects The Spanish Inquisition.

The Popular Front of Judea,

Knights that go “Nimh”, and all of that jam,

An Albatross, and Every Sperm Is Sacred,

All served up with Spam, Egg & Chips…and Spam!

The Life of Brian, mocking religion,

Playing word-games both clever and coy,

Always Looking On The Bright Side of Life,

Not being evil, just a Very Naughty Boy.

The Upper Class Twit of The Year Show,

A Holy Grail, and sketches both daft and plucky:

We loved The Ministry of Silly Walks,

Back in those golden days “We Were Lucky!”

Anyway, they say they’ve settled their differences,

It’ll be a golden payday that’s hard to begrudge,

The latest revival of a dead parrot,

Not so much “wink, wink”, as “nudge, nudge”.

 Whatever is their motivation,

Let’s just hope that they’re not going to fail:

For me, It’s……. great comedy gold,

The Meaning of Life, and The Holy Grail.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Woman In The Red Car

The Woman In The Red Car

That bloody woman

She’s sitting there again

Got here before me

And parked in my space

Forcing me to move elsewhere

And park my car in a different place

Which disturbs my daily routine

And puts me out for the rest of the day

That bloody woman

With her awful blood-red car

Sporting its tatty roof-rack

And child-seat in the back

Its dirty windows and an ugly scrape on the side

She can see the other spaces in this car-park

But none are so convenient

That bloody woman

Who never speaks to anyone

Just sits there reading her book

Waiting for the store to open

I know because I’ve watched her

I think she does it deliberately

Just to annoy me

But she cannot be oblivious to my feelings

That bloody woman

I don’t know how she manages to do it

She must get up extremely early

Just to beat me

It never used to happen

Then just once or twice

And now it’s all the time

She’s always there

That bloody woman

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Cactus

Cactus

I’ve never understood you

Or known what you might want

You just sit there year after year, implacably the same

Never growing or shrinking

Your pale green flesh all sheeny shiny

Bristling with hairs and spikes

A defensive exterior

Always showing to the world

But do you have a tender side to your prickly nature?

Is there a more succulent inner plant

That is cool and moist, sweet and gentle

Wet and watery

That you only reveal to closest friends?

I don’t know how to love you

When you just stare straight back at me

No signal of your feelings, nor flower of happiness

You give me so little response

That I often wonder

What it is it you’re waiting for

To me, you seem so undemanding

As if you do not even need me

I cannot comprehend your desires

Sitting in your arid pot and saucer

Happy in your desert dryness

Thriving on my neglect

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

A Doll's House

A Doll’s House   

                                          

Observe the fine detail

Of this perfect, tiny, tidy showcase

Where everything sits in rightful place

Sitting silently

Waiting for someone to call

To come and play

To breathe life and energy

Into this lifeless land

See how carefully the maker has toiled

How exactly his model replicates reality

With its inter-connected rooms

Its attics, basements and cellars

Its doors and floors, halls and walls

And a side that opens to the outside

Revealing to wider inspection

So that anyone may peer inside

And with a genial God-like presence

Watch the goings-on

Of this toy-land territory

Made in matchless miniature

Look how finely-wrought the furniture

The kitchen’s pixie pots and pans

Woollen carpets and silver cutlery

And notice how small the figures

Lifeless little people

Tiny tokens of a household

Scaled-down and smaller than any doll

But still too large to be in right proportion

To the rest of their wooden world

How beautiful, how ideal it all appears

And yet how quiet, dusty and dormant

And how empty this small community

Undisturbed by cries of living children

A shining showpiece

That is a house and yet not a home

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 17th November 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 17^th November 2013

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

1.       Flags and bunting were flying throughout the village this week in honour of Charles ‘Fruitcake’ Piglet, who has reached the grand old age of 65.  In a special ceremony outside The Wounded Ferret, Charles was presented with his bus-pass, a Bromham memorial walking-stick, and a certificate which bestowed upon the grand old veteran the Freedom of The Village.  In a further gesture of celebration, the recent charges of indecent exposure against Mr Piglet were finally dropped, due to lack of reliable witness evidence.

2.       Later in the week, however, controversy reigned as the owner of The Big House, at the end Jockey Lane, Mrs Violet ‘Bananas’ Piglet-Thynne, castigated the dietary habits of some villages.  When informed that some hard-working families could not afford to buy certain cuts of beef for their Sunday dinners, pronounced that it was time that they started to eat horsemeat instead.  Apart from being cheap, nutritious, and low in fat, horsemeat is in plentiful supply.  At times she struggled to be heard over the sound of reversing lorries in her stable-yard, which had been called in to take away a number of recent equine fatalities.

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

One Is Sixty-Five

One Is Sixty-Five

Thank-you so much! One is delighted!

One is so grateful – it’s really a gas,

With the nation in so much of a mess,

To finally get hold of one’s bus-pass!

One’s not sure what it’s used for,

But one feels it must be a very great perk,

Although one previously understood,

That one qualified after doing the work?

See – one’s still waiting to get on with the job,

A situation that’s a bit rummy,

(It’s a question of royal succession,

We have to settle the problem of Mummy).

One loves her, of course, and also the Greek -

Naturally, one is terribly loyal –

But one has been hanging around for a bit now,

And one is still not the senior royal.

One has kept oneself quietly occupied,

Carrying out visits as a mere filler,

There was that gel Diana, at one time,

But just lately one has been with Camilla.

One has tried to do one’s regal duty,

Producing young Wills as one’s heir,

But just in case of any mishaps,

One has provided Harry as the spare.

But there’s only so much time one can spend,

At Highgrove, one earnestly feels,

Sixty-five years is far too much time,

For anyone to be kicking one’s heels.

One’s had enough of Duchy Originals,

One finds that the time drags and pales,

One asks - just how long is long enough,

To still be the blessed Prince of Wales?

One dabbles in homeopathy,

And one has to be patient, one grants,

But one finds that after so many years,

One has long conversations with one’s plants.

One rattles between Windsor and Balmoral,

But the servants are getting bored and callous,

And are starting to wonder if their master,

Will ever command the corgis at Buck Palace.

  

One has to remain interested,

One has to look as if one is still keen,

But we’ve had the Diamond Jubilee now –

Why does the parent still want to be queen?

Surely it’s time to let someone else have a go?

One doesn’t know what else one could do,

But to carry on hoping and waiting,

To keep standing here in this short queue.

And what do you do? How interesting!

One must keep oneself busy – that’s the thing!

But one looks like one will get a free TV Licence,

Before one finally gets to be king!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Cactus

Cactus

I’ve never understood you

Or known what you might want

You just sit there year after year, implacably the same

Never growing or shrinking

Your pale green flesh all sheeny shiny

Bristling with hairs and spikes

A defensive exterior

Always showing to the world

But do you have a tender side to your prickly nature?

Is there a more succulent inner plant

That is cool and moist, sweet and gentle

Wet and watery

That you only reveal to closest friends?

I don’t know how to love you

When you just stare straight back at me

No signal of your feelings, nor flower of happiness

You give me so little response

That I often wonder

What it is it you’re waiting for

To me, you seem so undemanding

As if you do not even need me

I cannot comprehend your desires

Sitting in your arid pot and saucer

Happy in your desert dryness

Thriving on my neglect

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Evening Colour

Evening Colour

Where the road sweeps left

Winding through the bud-heavy hedgerows

Cutting, for a moment, the view ahead

The rainfall gathers glistening

In wide, flat pools and puddles

Catching slanting rays of late Spring sun

Glittering, reflecting golden light

In blinding sheets of white

Then swinging right again

Emerging from the tree-lined tunnel

Into a greater and wider space

Which opens up the glory of the sky

So wide, deep, darkly blue

And strongly bruised

The cumulus piled up high

Above roughly-ploughed fields

Their thick, large-furrowed

Dungeon-black shadowed lines

Gouging through the nut-brown earth

And on the other side

The wet, rich acid-green

Of freshened pasture-land

In the rolling landscape

Intense, brilliant, citrus-sharp

Where, at the field’s edge

The young calves stand near the gate

Leaning, lolling heads in to the lane

Curious, wide-eyed, lowing

And far beyond all this

On the distant, climbing fields

Wide sweeps of lemon yellow

Gashed across the scene

Their acres of alien rape-seed stalks

Drawing bolder background stripes

To brighten the glowing vista

Between the twisting road

And the massive sky

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Attic Treasure

Attic Treasure

Into the headspace of the house

Unwitting keeper of our careless clutter

Silently sitting above us all these years

Among wires, pipes and tanks

Within piles of soft loft lagging

Lie cases and cardboard boxes

Which hold precious memories

Long suppressed, but not forgotten

Through cobwebby threads

And the mustiness of dust

A time-capsule of bygones

Are the things of yesterdays

Which were so important many years ago

Hurriedly stashed and stored

With the best of intentions

Against some hoped-for bright new future

That did not came to pass

There, right at the back

Where the light barely penetrates

Almost hidden from view

The baby’s cot in white-and-blue

Stacked in sections under the eaves

Paint pitted and peeling

Its patterns still visible, but faded

Like the memory of a young life lost early

Toys casually collected

In the course of a shortened childhood

And kept in memoriam

A model boat, its torn sail hanging loose

A doll that still sits staring, unsmiling

Records and tapes collecting dust

Books with jackets ripped

And piles of her clothing

Quickly removed from her bedroom

And the rest of the house

Tearfully pushed out of sight

And out of mind

Before you came home again

So that you should not see them anymore

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Remembrance

Remembrance

On the eleventh day

And at the eleventh hour

In a cold and wintry November

We choose that very moment

That specific time

At which we will remember

At the moment of the Armistice

When the big guns at last fell silent

Memories that will never cease

Thinking of those poor Tommies

Forced to fight for King and Country

In pursuit of lasting peace

Now at that lumpen marble stone

The whitened Cenotaph

Gather men in darkened suits

Wearing poppies on sharp lapels

Holding rounded, heavy wreaths

Within the sound of marching boots

The sombre tolling of Big Ben

A minute’s empty, windy silence

The Last Post sounding clear

Thinking of The Fallen

Blood spilt, lives lost

In many lands, both far and near

Respect for those departed

Who laid down their lives in war

Red and white flowers on this Sunday

But soldiers coming home

Face a daily battle

Like how to cope with Monday

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 10th November 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 10^th November 2013

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

1.       Great interest was provoked in Bromham when the heads of the three main Security Services appeared before the Parish Council Security Sub-Committee.  Patrick ‘Nick, Nick’ Piglet head of Middle-field Intelligence (MI5), Peter ‘Hush-hush’ Piglet head of Middle-lane Intelligence (MI6) and Paul ‘Not Me, No Sir’ Piglet head of General Chatter Headquarters (GCHQ) sat in the chairs facing the committee and spent three hours not answering questions, refusing to give details of anything, and denying that they were who the committee said they were.  Apparently.  Nobody really knows.

2.       A row has broken out in ecclesiastical circles after it was revealed that a bearded man had entered the Parish Church of St Knickerless on Sunday morning wearing trousers, shirt and tie, but who later appeared before parishioners at the 11 o’clock service clad in a white dress (or “surplice” as it may be known) trimmed with green, and brandishing a weapon, alleged to be a silver-topped crucifix.  Questions have been asked in the Parish Council as to how the suspect could have been allowed to evade detection in such a way.  The garments were later found abandoned in the vestry.  Enquiries continue.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

The Children Might Hear

The Children Might Hear

Keep your voice down to a whisper

So the sound does not carry through the wall

The children might hear the growing anger

And know we’re fighting once again

Just talk quietly under your breath

For I can hear you well enough

Try to control these raw emotions

And keep your pain and anger to yourself

We do not need to scream and shout

To understand how one another feels

We just have to listen that much harder

And try to find a way to love again

Once we liked to speak in whispers

In languid words of love and lust

Laughing quietly under tangled bedding

When there was no-one else to over-hear

But now there are only lies and secrets

And things we wish they didn’t know

About two unhappy people fighting

Through their noisy, tangled lives

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

It's My Party...

It’s My Party…

It’s not seemly to be selfish

To keep it to oneself

Hiding it from others

To be so possessive

And to not share

But this different

In this case it’s mine, not yours

And clearly belongs only to me

It’s personal and private

This thing that’s growing inside

It’s for me to suffer and endure

To conduct my own campaign

Of warfare against its existence

And to battle bravely against what ails me

I appreciate your interest

Your sympathy, your empathy

And all the feelings you have

For my sorry situation

How you want to take over

To make me feel better

To nurse me back to health

To smother me with love

Overwhelm me with information

And the brave tales of others

Who have battled and won

But you can’t fight by proxy

You’re stepping on my toes

Encroaching onto my patch

Muscling in on my action

Pushing me out of the picture

And invading my territory

Can’t you see?

I went to a lot of trouble

Spent a lot of my lifetime

To catch this bloody disease

And develop this condition

To grow these mutant cells

That creep and threaten to spread

Over the rest of my innards

It was me that gave birth to this monster

It’s my baby so let me look after it

Nurture it and watch it grow

Till it’s fully formed and large enough

That I can finally stick the knife in

Cut it right away

And kill the damned cuckoo

Don’t deny me this one thing

It’s what keeps me going

It’s one of the few pleasures I’m going to get

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

This Bloke I Know Is Jesus

This Bloke I Know Is Jesus

I used to see him in the queue

Most mornings at the pool

Knew him just enough to say hello

Or pass the time of day

Then, perhaps, during swimming

Or in the changing room later

A quiet, unassuming man

With nothing much to say

I didn’t notice much at first

That his beard had begun to grow

To frame his youthful face

Adding to his gravitas

Nor did I pay much attention

As Easter-tide approached

That he seemed pre-occupied

And turned more within himself

But then I saw him in the street

Bowed and bloodied

A crown of thorns upon his head

Carrying a heavy wooden cross

A crowd following, shouting

Acting out the Passion Play

And its Good Friday journey

To the Market Place Golgotha

Where he was quietly crucified

Among a staring group of people

Three days later he lived again

And stood there in the queue

Waiting for the pool to open

I couldn’t believe it was really him

And that he had come among us

Just a normal day with its Good Mornings

And desultory chat among the regulars

He still looked like no-one special

He seemed to be an ordinary bloke

But now I knew one more thing about him

That he was Jesus in his spare time

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Reynard

Reynard

Emerging through a hole in the fence

Beneath the shadow-harbouring trees

Along a daily-travelled route

He trots confidently into the open

Pausing in his transit of the track-way

To stop and take stock of his world

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

Muzzle hanging open, panting gently

His eyes glint and flash

Reflecting late afternoon sunlight

Wild, alert, fiercely alive

Nose, ears at full attention

Looking, listening

Appraising useful scents

Carried on the breeze

The direction, the lie of the land

And prospects for further hunting

Scavenging forays

Among local hen-houses

And rabbit-burrows

Which lie within his rural realm

Head turning slowly

His guileless glance moves

Towards the exact point

Where I silently watch

Hardly daring to breathe

His steady stare

Burning into my eyes

Then, hearing the distant vixen

Nursing quarrelsome cubs

Calling to him from the earth

He slips away, back among the trees

With a flamboyant flash of tail

As if he had never been there

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013