Radioactive

Radioactive

I’ve had this little operation,

On the theatre table laid prostrate,

They’ve fixed me up, and I’m good to go,

Now they’ve irradiated my prostate.

Yes they treated me with radiation,

With hundreds of tiny little seeds,

Now I’m full of alpha particles,

That will soon provide for all my needs.

I’ve got my own internal power source,

Which is a most important factor.

Now I’m a little generator,

Like a tiny nuclear reactor.

This fusion makes me glow in the dark,

Just like the ad with the Reddy-Brek kid,

And if the nation gets short of power,

They’ll just connect me to the National Grid.

Now you’ll see I’ve got a new demeanour,

That there’s a special quality to my gaze:

It comes from a sense of inner power –

Well - that and I’m transmitting gamma rays.

And it’s bound to make me so much fitter,

A claim I think you’ll find is fair,

Cause now I can only go out and about,

If I’m sporting my lead underwear.

These hot spots of uranium

Provide me with lots of future hope.

It’ll take me decades to decay,

Thanks to the half-life of my isotope.

And now I’m fit and full of energy,

A Geiger-counter provides the metric:

I’m a low-carbon, lean, green machine,

And I generate my own electric.

Not only that: there’s something else to tell -

This medical advance that’s come to pass,

Means that now I have this inner light,

So the sun really does shine out my ass.

There’s only one cloud on the horizon,

Something that might cause me to frown:

There could perhaps be a nuclear accident,

And my innards might go into melt-down.

  

So just be careful when you come to bury me:

It might have be a very long way down.

You won’t want me in your neighbourhood,

So it’ll have to be a long way out of town.

Anyway, there’s only one thing puzzling me:

Now that I’ve become radio-active,

And that I’m fully solar-powered,

Does it make me any more attractive?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Anticipation

Anticipation

Soon, soon, but not quite yet

Time dripping like a leaking tap

Its droplets seeping quietly away

A death-march dissipation

But not diminishing the span

Of the open interval

Before the consummation

So very nearly there

But not yet docked at the destination

My nerves jingling

Tingling in the finger-ends

The tumour of fear and worry

Gently growing within, building

Sending staccato signals

Through my trembling limbs

The anticipation of what might be

Or which may never happen at all

Yet the unbearableness of not knowing

Fearing the worst, wondering what may come

From around the next corner

The active mind plays its awful tricks

Thinking and guessing

Hoping and dreading

Worrying and waiting

I find myself holding my breath

Then the relief of exhalation

Dithering and shaking

So that I cannot settle

Nor find a way to rest

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Connected

Connected

He sits there in the corner all alone,

Absorbed in reading the latest text,

The most amazing fun he ever has,

Almost better than even having sex.

He can’t hear what I’m saying – he’s too far gone:

His social manners are quite uncouth.

His dearest object is his smart-phone,

His only worries are wi-fi and Blue-tooth.

He always likes to be connected:

To be abandoned would cause a frown,

So he texts and tweets and emails,

In case he misses what’s going down.

He’s got all the very latest gadgets -

Wireless hardware, and some software apps.

There’s nothing he can’t find out, or look up -

In his world, there aren’t too many gaps.

He aims to be online completely wireless,

Accessing his friends and data on the move,

Reporting on his every whereabout,

To let them know he’s in the groove.

You could be talking and he wouldn’t hear you,

He’s engrossed in looking at Facebook -

It’s as if he’s not really with you,

Just as if he couldn’t give a fuck.

His skin has assumed a ghostly pallor,

And his finger-nails are turning green.

Unearthly shadows flick across his face,

Reflected from his i-Phone’s tiny screen.

His brow is furrowed in concentration,

As he reads what’s recently occurred,

Crouched over the device within his hands,

And his fast-texting thumbs are blurred.

He’s terrified he might lose his signal,

Or his life as a connected man,

The phone he’s clutching, and frequently touching,

Just two seconds is his attention span.

Each incoming message holds promise,

Of some earthly contact electronic:

As if it’s asserted that he’s not been deserted,

Though his responses are mostly moronic.

  

His hearing has almost deserted him,

His eyes are hooded, his jaw it hangs slack.

He’s not really with us here in the room,

As he sits there emailing at the back.

Yes he’s got to be Mister Connected -

His concentration must be concerted,

But one of these days, he’s gonna look up,

And find himself totally deserted!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Adornment

Adornment

Admire the blank and empty canvas upon which delicate brush-strokes have been drawn

as if to create a pretty picture, an illusion -

there, across her angled shoulders, a golden sash, lightly drawn,

an elegant sweep of colour upon the whiteness of her milky flesh -

there, around her neck, a delicate filigree thread

suspends a single diamond, upon the gossamer muslin above her gently-rising breast -

there, along her naked arms, a rack of gilded circlets, clicking, singing, cymbal-shimmering

resonating to the movement of her body -

there, on her slim and elegant fingers , twine twisted delicate rings

topaz-red in silvered settings, jewelled in harmony with her carmined nails -

there, on her perfect pallid face, along the nape and cheekbone

lie barely-visible, tiny blonde hairs and from the faintest pinkness

of shapely ear-lobes hang heavy hoops of gold -

there, up to the very edges of her pretty mouth, runs the lip-gloss painted line,

a precise and perfect butterfly beneath the pertness of her nose sporting its tiny jewelled stud -

and there, across her sculpted face, sits her calm and cool expression

which speaks so little of the effort

that it took to look so natural

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 23rd April 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 23^rd April 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Election fever has once again hit Bromham.  Villagers were absolutely over-joyed to be told that once again their next eight weeks would be filled with the sound of ringing doorbells and tapping on doors as a whole fleet of self-serving local politicians, whom they do not normally see from one election to the next, vie for fifteen seconds of their attention.  The local incinerator has been put on standby as boxes of election leaflets are ruthlessly transferred from door-mat to recycling bin.

2.      And today the street of Bromham is filled with thousands of runners, dressed in a whole range of outfits – animals, superheroes, and a wide selection of abstract designs – cheered on by a crowd of nearly seven.  Some of them are expected to take four or five hours to complete the course, which is usually run by the elite contingent in just over two hours.  Police have closed the street and a watering station and toilets have been set up.  Yes it’s quite a thing when the annual fancy-dress ball at The Wounded Ferret tips out in the early hours of the morning.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 2017

What Lies Beyond

What Lies Beyond

It used to be the main entrance

An imposing cathedral space

Stone and glass and grand dimension

An echoing Victorian portal

Giving admittance to the wards beyond

The smell of death and strong carbolic

Now updated with a modern make-over

Sensitive deployment

Of smart synthetic surfaces

Creating a contemporary feel

Pastelled walls of recent artwork

Imposing copper sculptures

Conversation pieces within the information hub

A crowded hubbub of comings and goings

Busy, active people throng

The global-branded café outlet

Seeking soothing lattes and mochas

A convenient power point

To recharge their mobile devices

Draw some sustenance

Locate the wandering wifi signal

And jack themselves in to the internet

Or gently cruise the shopping mall

The range of vending opportunities

Outsourced concessions

The thrum of retail activity

Bees within a busy hive

A brightly down-lit arcaded atrium

An open meeting-space

Colour-coded signage

In a font of retro-vibe lower case

Indicating the way out

That leads from Waiting

Into the hospital itself

Where poorly people lie in bed

Hooked to monitors and machines

Wire-connected

Jacked into tubes and treatments

Losing steady signal

Absorbing drips and drugs

And leaking out their body fluids

Seeking diagnosis of condition

And prognosis of their future

And amid the wounds, illness and injury

There is tension and anxiety

And a rarely-distant fear

Of suffering and dying

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Thariwala Chicken Curry

Recipe for: CURRY – THARIWALA CHICKEN

Ingredients:

• 2 tblsp sunflower oil
• 2 tsp cumin seeds
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, finely chopped
• 225g tin tomatoes, whizzed in blender until smooth
• 2 tsp fresh ginger, grated
• 2 green chillies, finely chopped, seeds & all
• 1½ tsp salt
• 1 tsp ground turmeric
• 2 tsp garam masala
• 2 handfuls fresh coriander, chopped
• 4 chicken thighs, skinned

 Method:

1. heat oil in large pan, add cumin seeds and, when they begin to sizzle, add the onion & garlic, and fry until golden brown
2. remove from the heat & add the tomato, ginger, chillies, salt, turmeric, garam masala and half the coriander
3. cook, stirring frequently, over a low heat until the mixture becomes shiny and the oil separates out (this is very important)
4. add the chicken & stir-fry in the sauce for a few minutes
5. add boiling water to just cover, bring to the boil, then lower the heat & simmer, covered, for 20 minutes or until cooked through
6. remove the lid, raise the heat & thicken the sauce for five minutes
7. stir in the rest of the coriander & serve

Cat Verse

Cat Verse

The cat is helping me

In writing this verse

Crawling into position

On my lap in front of the desk

Her eyes in line with the cursor

Nose wrinkling at the opening of windows

Her paws intercepting my fingers

Guiding the keystrokes

Purring approval when it suits her

Or growling a critique

Her claws dictating the speed of my movement

Dissuading me from any sudden movements

Or badly-chosen words

Her fur ruffling in occasional disgust

Watching the shift of my hand

As I shelter the mouse

From her imminent attack

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017 

Because...

Because…

Because now that I know

…I wish that I didn’t

               …a rabbit that’s out of the hat

Because I keep thinking about it

…dreams of engulfment

…nightmares too bad to bear

Because when I wake up it should just go away

               …dissolve like the rest of my night terrors

…into great gulps of relief

…but this time it doesn’t

Because this time it’s true

…and I can’t the thing shake it off

               …stuck to me limpet-like

Because there’s no easy solution

…no simple way out

                              …nor way to avoid it

Because there’s no amount of money

…that could be scraped together

…that would pay this thing off

Because it doesn’t take bribes

               …no price of my ransom

…nor even listen to reason

Because it’s unfeeling

…it doesn’t know what it’s doing

…nor realise what it’s doing to my life

Because my peace of mind is failing

…because this is it

…because this time it’s real

…because it’s so frightening

That’s why I’m shouting

…calling out in my sleep

…because I’m afraid

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 not to share

But this quite different

In this case, it’s mine, not yours

And clearly belongs only to me

It’s personal and private

The thing that’s growing inside is for me to suffer and endure

To conduct my own campaign of warfare against it

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’d like to take over

To make me feel better

To nurse me back to health

To smother me with love

To 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 deadly condition

Growing these mutant cells

That threaten to spread over the rest of my innards

It was me that gave birth to this monster

It’s my bloody baby, so let me look after it

I must be the one to nurture it, and feel 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 that’s mine

The anger that’s driving me

Till the fight-back begins -

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 16th April 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 16^th April 2017

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

                                                  

1.      There was outrage around the world on Tuesday when footage emerged online of a man being forcibly dragged on-board of the 33 Faresaver 10.27 service to Devizes.  The passenger insisted that he actually wanted to go to Chippenham, in the opposite direction, but was told that he had to take the seat to Devizes whether he liked it or not.  A spokes-person for the bus company insisted “we cannot be driving around with empty seats on our buses.  What would the Council say?  The passenger in question was not dragged on-board – he was Denied Involuntarily Standing At A Bus Stop, which is a different thing altogether.”

2.      And, in further shock waves of news, it emerged that the muck-spreading season across Bromham’s vegetable fields had begun.  In the biggest single drop of conventional ordure in peacetime, there was Manure Over All Bromham (MoAB).  Although the event was not formally notified to news agencies globally, there was no need – you could smell it for miles around.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Angry

Angry

It’s not disappointment, nor confusion, nor frustration

those feelings you seem to think I’m having

because your training tells you I’ll be shocked, surprised and overwhelmed

by information overload, unable to take it all in, as though it’s far too much -

but that’s not it at all…

No - I fully understand, I’m simply focused on your voice,

the reassuring practiced tone of directness - no beating about the bush,

no use of euphemisms, just the bare and brutal truth

of your honesty, coming straight to the point

leaving no space for any doubt…

But - after that - it’s very different:

a sudden narrowing darkness on the periphery of vision,

a caving-in of walls, a falling, breaking sky

and a hard shattering of light, brilliant glittering crystals

and cracking blood-red beads, shimmering sparkles cascading to the floor

where they settle, puddling in pools around my feet…

And then deathly quietness, an emptying-out of sound

except for the hollowness, the echoing noise that is the droning of your voice

still outlining clinical options and decisions,

oblivious to the shit-storm that’s hitting me,

quivering and shaking, a rising gorge, a boiling up of anger,

a roiling, towering rage, cowering under the enormity

of the scale of this miserable betrayal, the depth of disappointment

that my own body should dare to let me down

and fail to go the distance

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Only Easter Poem I've Ever Written

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 2017

Do Not Worry Livestock

Do Not Worry Livestock

Seen upon a farmer’s gate whilst out walking

I pondered upon this heartfelt warning

What did it mean? And who was talking?

Was it a command to me and other ramblers?

Not to mess or mutilate his milkers

Nor to hassle or harry his heifers?

Was his pedigree bull of nervous disposition

And could not withstand any inquisition?

Or perhaps I should not rouse

Any of his hogs or his farrowing sows

In case they should feel forsaken

And then produce less tasty bacon?

Or maybe I should cross the field quickly

And with his sheep not shilly-shally

Nor hang around and dilly-dally?

No chattering with the chickens

And, under no circumstances, should I feature

In the discussion with any creature

An existential debate

Of what might be their likely fate?

But, then again, there was just a chance

That it was a message of reassurance -

He might have been reaching out to human-kind

Begging us not to be of troubled mind

Rather, telling us to put behind

Us all our cares and woe

That he wants us all to know

That when we’re feeling down and low

When we hear the ticking of life’s clock

That when our friends do naught but mock

And with guilt we’re had up in the dock

That when our life has foundered on a rock

Don’t worry – livestock!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Fine Feeling

Fine Feeling

There are no symptoms

Nor any visible signs

There is no chronic pain

Nor any different feelings that rise up from inside

You really cannot tell

You simply wouldn’t know

There’s nothing obvious to be dealt with

No illness to be endured

Nor sickness to be suffered

No brave battle to be waged

In this quiet, phoney war

This enemy is simply subtle

A creeping, subversive agent

A sleeping cell awoken

A filthy fifth-columnist

A slow and gentle growth

Nuanced in its progress

Quietly about its work

An occult, unseen change

An internal mathematician

That divides, adds and multiplies

And though it is yet microscopic

Invisible to the naked eye

Hidden organ-deep

And imperceptible to others

It dominates my view

The largest object on my horizon

There is no slowing of the mechanism

The body-clock continues on its course

I am not an invalid, nor entirely given up

So when you ask me how I am

I’ll simply feign a narrow smile

And tell you that I’m feeling fine

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Green

Green

Green

Is the colour of the nasty 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 clutch tightly

As you try to grasp the meaning

Of the torrent of 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 place inside your folder

To build up your collection

Of oncology information

And unwanted reference reading

Green

Is the colour of the typeface

Of the jaunty letter-font

The co-ordinated colour-coded logo

That someone once designed

To appear bright and accessible

For each new unwilling owner

Of this convenient carry-case

Green!

Of all the colours of the rainbow

The massive palette of shades and hues

Who was it that determined green

Might be the fittest cancer tint?

Some sort of positive signal?

An encouragement to carry on?

Why not healthy-tissue pink?

Or a mildly-cautious amber?

Why not deep-depression blue?

Or the blackness of deep despair?

Why not a sickening yellow?

Or the fiery red of anger?

Green?

I don’t think this is what they meant

When they asked me if I had any questions

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 9th April 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 9^th April 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Bromham’s Foreign Minister (well, he’s not actually Bromham born & bred, so we think he’s a bit, you know, “foreign”), has condemned Wiltshire Council’s decision to attack the village with Leisurely Sea-Cruise missiles on Friday.  The attack was in retaliation for a suspected methane attack two days earlier, when the village’s farmers liberally covered their fields with fresh manure.  The drifting “country” smell caused people in Trowbridge to have to close their windows for a few hours.  It is hoped that an international incident can be avoided.

2.      Bromham’s racecourse, Aintright, was packed with a great crowd in holiday mood yesterday, to watch favourite Dunrunnin romp home in the famous Ganderflank Chase.  Second was Wellbeaten and third was Littlechance.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 2017

Honey-roast Gammon Ham

Recipe for: HONEY-ROAST GAMMON HAM

Ingredients:

• 2-3kg unsmoked gammon joint, soaked overnight in water
• 1 carrot, halved
• 1 onion, quartered
• 2 celery stalks in chunks
• 1 bay leaf
• 4 thyme sprigs
• 1 tsp black peppercorns
• 100ml honey
• 100g Demerara sugar
• 50ml Madeira
• 3 tblsp soy sauce
• 3 tblsp English mustard
• 2 tblsp Worcestershire sauce
• 50 cloves (to stud)

 Method:

1. put the drained gammon & vegetables in a large pan & cover with cold water
2. bring to the boil, skimming off any scum
3. add the bay leaf, thyme & peppercorns, then simmer for 2 hours, topping up he water f necessary
4. meanwhile make the glaze: put the sugar & honey in a saucepan & slowly bring to the boil
5. when the mixture starts to foam, remove from the heat & add the Madeira
6. leave to cool slightly, then add the soy, mustard & Worcester sauce. Set aside
7. when the ham is cooked, lift out onto a large roasting tin
8. heat the oven to 170C/ fan 150C/ gas 3
9. using a sharp knife & scissors & fingers, cut the skin of the ham away, leaving an even layer of fat.  Score the fat in a criss-cross pattern.  Stud each diamond with a clove
10. brush the glaze over the ham and roast/ bake for another hour, basting frequently
11. when browned, set aside to rest for 15 minutes before carving

The Bard's Guide To Golf

Guide To Golf

What modern madness is this?

That when the weather’s fine, a man thinks

Here’s a chance for some four-ball jinks

With some time out on the links?

Followed by the nineteenth hole

And a skinful of drinks?

For when he’s finally well-oiled

Out in the hot sun he’s been boiled

And round eighteen holes he’s just toiled

It only amounts to “a good walk spoiled”.

And though he’s frightfully keen

At the Royal & Ancient to be seen

Men such as he never say what they actually mean

They talk in a jargon or code

They want to be “a la mode”

They want to be the boss

As they stride over the moss

In the search for a Birdie, or an Eagle

Or an ever-elusive albatross.

But if you’re looking for these birds

Why use these ridiculous words?

And the equipment sounds totally dud –

Is a club or an iron any good?

A sand-wedge, or a driver that’s stood?

And what’s a niblick, or even a wood?

They’re chipping, and driving and slicing

Or pitching and putting (to put on the icing)

And with fashion sense they’re definitely dicing.

And everyone who plays, every old fogey

Doesn’t want to be caught with a bogey

When striding around with their trolley

Nobody wants to look like a wally

Then they’re stroking, or playing from scratch

And washing their balls during a match.

But these badly-dressed fools

With their bags full of expensive tools

Who follow these arcane regulations and rules

Amateur or professional, whatever their role

Have just one thing as their goal

These men would give up their very soul

If the full truth were finally tol’

Just to knock a bloody ball into a hole!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

The Shedding Of Skins

The Shedding of Skins

And what of the future

And a life that differs from yesteryear?

To cast off old restrictions

The tightness of being

The shallow breathing

That chokes and throttles

To peel away the papery epidermis

Shadow of what once had been

And things that went before

The thin constriction of many years

An outgrown palimpsest

Dry and crispy cracking

Of empty outer skin

To leave behind

Without a single thought

The rough leavings

And abandoned bindings

Simple and superfluous

And to emerge renewed

Wet, supple and slippery

Glistening smooth

A new creature escaping

Bright-featured in appearance

Yet far more changed within

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

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 2017

Elephant

Elephant

Flapping folds of sagging skin

Of grey leathery hide

Wrinkled and well lived-in

Doused in dust, masked in mud

A time-old treatment

To bring relief from a burning sun

Hang roughly from the bulky frame

Loosely draped across the dome

Of the massive head

Swinging slowly side to side

Ears flapping, fanning

Trunk waving, prehensile

Tusks pointing, threatening

Towards the source of any danger

Eyes in shadow, thick-hooded

Liquid pools of darkness

Lashes long and thick

Black protective strands

Covering the crinkled lids

Hiding deep wells of thought

That may be windows into memory

Ancient mental pathways

Deep voices of the bulls

Sub-sonic rumbling through the bush

Grumbling stomachs

Communicating with the herd

And the browsing family group

Keeping the cows and calves close by

Gentle parental pachydermic protests

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 2nd April 2017

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 2^nd April 2017

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

                                                  

1.      In a historic week for the village, the leader of  the Parish Council, Theresa Green, delivered the official letter which triggered Article 51, sub-section 8, paragraph 23, clause 11 (Brexit) and the start of two hundred years of negotiations to take Bromham out of Wiltshire.  The response (an immediate wall of silence) from the other 27 villages was taken as a positive sign.  However, applications to join Hampshire, Berkshire, Dorset and Somerset instead are known to have been rejected.  The status of non-Bromham grockles is, as yet, unknown.

2.      The Chief Executive of the Bromham Cottage Hospital has announced that he expects people to have to wait slightly longer than the current average of 21 years for routine surgery, in an attempt to maintain the current stringent target in A&E of people being treated within 4 – 5 days.  Urgent cases will, of course, still be ignored for the first 12 hours, or until they are spotted by an overworked nurse writhing in agony on the floor and frothing at the mouth (or whichever occurs first).

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Panther

Panther

How she stands there among the sandy grass

Feline and fierce, above her throttled victim

Too small to defend her kill

Taking breaths and taking stock

The smell of blood already on the wind

Carrying the message of an easy meal

To carnivores and scavengers

That forever dog her hunting expeditions

How stealthily she moves to tidy up

To shift the body to a safer place

The strength of muscles and teeth

To quickly drag and scramble

To climb a tree, up inside the canopy

And leave the lifeless legs dangling

Beyond the jaws of hyenas

Out of sight of vultures

Allowing her some time to rest

And breathe easy once again

How she lies there in the crook of the branch

Amidst the dappling shadowed leaves

Hidden by her rosetted coat

Her larder full and waiting

A softly panting panther

This lithe and lissom leopard

Her glinting watchful eyes

Savage and solitary

Stealthy, opportunistic

Safe and secure

Until the hunger pangs return

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017