A Moment

A Moment

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

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

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

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

into the blackness of the lake

Impervious to the calling of geese behind him in the reeds

and the lapping waves, slapping the sides of the dinghy

bobbing gently, a mile out from shore

he soon detects the steady throb of diesels

the pleasure-cruiser emerging from behind the headland

silhouetted by the setting sun

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

at this disturbance to his evening solitude

but still raises his unencumbered arm, in greeting or salutation

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

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

before the bow-wave buffeting that will come

as we glide past and leave him to his fishing

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

BBQ Wars

BBQ Wars

What a fine creature is the Englishman,

Who stays English wherever he may roam -

He regards his house as his castle,

And always comes back to his home.

And I’m no different to the others,

A middle-class semi is my domain:

Like a dog, I mark out my territory,

But the neighbours can drive me insane.

In the Summer, the house seemed way too small -

I just couldn’t wait to get out in the garden.

I liked to spread out as much as I could,

And for that I’ll not beg any pardon.

The Supplements call it “patio living” –

I’ve no idea if that’s really true –

I just want to get out there and party,

And to wheel out the old barbecue.

I’ll admit that my cooking contraption

Had probably seen much better days,

But I’d used it over and over -

I was too old to be changing my ways.

The sides might have been grease-encrusted,

Harbouring a well-blackened grill,

But the rusting pan still held the charcoal,

And you could smell the smokiness still.

A quick dose of petrol and firelighters

Was enough to get them coals glowing,

A beer in my hand, the stereo blasting,

And soon we had the sausages going.

Set among the cracked patio slabs

With some rickety, broken plastic chairs

And a great big wobbly plastic table

It was a bit ramshackle – but who cares?

That was until I looked over the fence,

To see what it was my neighbour had done.

I know it’s not meant to be a competition,

But his guests seemed to be having more fun.

I saw that he’d started to up the ante,

That he’d got a bigger, better barbecue.

It was one of those high-end models,

And not only that, but it was quite new.

  

It had multi-burner gas rings,

Thermostats and finger-tip controls,

Shelves for the food and utensils,

And synthetic, re-useable coals.

I stared in horror and disbelief,

At this top-of-the-range barbecue beast,

As he loaded his flavoured cooking wood,

And served up a veritable feast.

There were coloured marinade brushes,

A rotisserie and a pizza stone:

It was truly the dog’s bollocks of “homeware”,

And, as he cooked, he jawed on the phone.

His guests lounged on ample bamboo sofas,

Under a candy-striped open marquee,

The sun shone on the glass-topped dining-table,

And his well-tended lawns were easy to see.

I looked back at my miserable display,

At my bare patch of ground with no plants,

At my shed that was tumbling down,

And decided the whole thing was just pants.

My middle-class angst overwhelmed me,

I could see how I’d be marked as a “fail”,

I hated next door’s culinary nerd -

I was beaten by the local Alpha Male.

My burgers and ribs no longer appealed,

That was to be no more cooking that day -

Steak that for a game of soldiers, I thought,

Went inside, and ordered a takeaway.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Villages

Villages

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

surface cratered with potholes, hard-used and neglected

our progress precarious

A village –

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

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

pungent smoke from crumbling chimneys, old carpets draped in doorways

hunger in their eyes

The track twisting and turning, churning mud under tyres

the engine labouring, my arm aching from shifting the gears

my back breaking from the rolling and pitching

but moving forward

Another village –

no people, or perhaps hidden from view

echoes in the emptiness, smells of scattered straw

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

deserted amid the rubble

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

darkness for a few moments, flickering light dappling the windscreen

emerging at the foot of a valley

the car rolling and rattling

And another village –

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

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

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

danger in the darkness

Right foot down quickly, thankfully, left behind

in the fumes of our escape, diesel exhaust and dust

headed for the distant lights of town

blockades, barricades, checkpoints, the only things remaining

between ourselves and sanctuary

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

If Only

If Only…

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

And gone for a run in the sunshine

Just a few miles to get the heart beating

And the muscles more finely toned

If only… he’d never started smoking

And forsaken the twenty a day

Given his lungs a break from the poison

And avoided the tobacco and tar

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

Not drunk so many pints in a night

Missed out on the intake of alcohol

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

He might have led a healthier life

If only… he had taken his chances

When they had presented themselves

Had taken the risk by gambling

Double or quits on the turn of a card

If only… he had backed the horses that won

The ones that romped home by a mile

Or piled in another few coins

To the machine that was due to pay out

If only… he’d remembered to buy a ticket

And pick out his usual numbers

That week they came up in the lottery

A double roll-over jackpot

Ah, yes, if only he’d speculated

He might have been so much wealthier

If only… he’d been brave enough

To speak his mind when he saw her

To ask her to walk out with him

And to be the special one in his life

If only… he’d been sure enough

To value her above all of the others

To want to spend the rest of his life with her

And given her the whole of his heart

If only… he’d asked her to marry him

And set up a home life together

To have and to hold from that day forward

Ah, yes, if only he’d asked her

He might have been much luckier in love

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

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

If only… he’d tried that little bit harder

Things might have been so much different for him

He might have been healthier,

Wealthier and loved by the world

He might have felt a sense of fulfilment

That he’d drained life to the dregs

That he’d truly lived

Ah, yes, if only…

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Split

Split

To travel not knowing what may be found

Is the joy, the promise, the hope

Of those who journey open-minded

Delighted by what turns up

The more unexpected, so much the better

So the sudden chasming of the Earth

The falling away of land, the breaking ground

From its sharp, precipitous edge

Forming a vertiginous rim

Looking down into the stomach-churning void

To the deepest valley bottom

Far, far below the vantage point

Almost beyond the power of the naked eye

Is still the greatest shock

And is a glory indescribable

A level, monotonous landscape

Fools to deceive, carries no warning

And conceals within its folds a feature

A mountain range of rock

That simply isn’t there

A massive hole of empty space

An accident of geology in its prehistoric making

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

A canyon crack in the planet’s crust

A trench of impossible scale

That seduces the senses

Its blues and greys shimmering

A shifting drift of haze making a mist of distance

Belying its terrible depth

Down, down into the abyss

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 25th June 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 25^th June 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Well it’s been music, music, music all the way in D-Town this weekend as the nationally-famous love-in that is the annual festival takes place.  Nearly tens of people flocked to The Green to see such headline acts as Amy Ciderhouse, Rusty Springboard, Charles Aznavoice and Riff Pilchard appearing on the Wigwam stage.  The much-expected rain did not appear, so there was no mud – a major disappointment to the town pervs, who normally enjoy watching scantily-clad young ladies in their wet t-shirts.

2.      And great excitement in the town’s Council Chamber this week when the Lady Mayoress formally opened proceedings for yet another year.  Remarks were made about the Mayoress’s hat, which bore a striking resemblance to the green and white stripes of the Wiltshire flag, perhaps a coded message against Brexit (borough exit from Wiltshire)?  It was also a nice touch for her to bring her young son along to proceedings, perhaps with a view to him one day becoming the mayor himself.  Bless.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-Off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Red Shoes

Red Shoes

It’s a strange kind of wanting

An emptiness you could call it

But there is a hankering I have

A longing, a long-held desire

To complete my wardrobe

And fulfil a need I’ve had since youth

But had not the means

And when I knew no better

I must have a pair of red shoes

To peer out shyly from my denims

And show the world that I still have some style

And that I am still alive

But they cannot be bright or brazen

The wrong shade, not Royal Mail red

But dark as ox-blood, deep as bleeding

Soft, gentle tongues

Lurking beneath eyelets

With laces pulled through

And carefully tied with double bows

Hard soles and calf-leather uppers

To embrace my aging feet

And carry me through

Until I need footwear no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Early

Early

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

Pale thin ghost-light, ice-coldness

An echoing emptiness mocking the night before

Of fire-lit warmth and conviviality

In the sharp crisp-hard silence of morning

Each sound resounds, rings hollow

The chores of clearing up and cleaning out

The grey grate of soot and cold embers

A grim dismembered mess of cinders

The chill cold of metal brush and pan

Tar-blackened pokers and tongs

The clang and scrape of the battered ash bucket

Scratched and dirty shovel at attention to do duty

To shift clinkered residues

And make way for the laying of new materials

For a future conflagration

Grimy newsprint and candle-ends

Under criss-crossed kindling

Cradling the careful stook of splintered logs

Creamy grain, hard-twisted knots

Backed by soft-lichened bark

Of once-glorious greenwoods

Rough scabbed surfaces scratching fingers

And scuffing dirty knuckles

The colourless morning, bleak and bleached

Leaching into harsher daylight

An involuntary shiver at the deadness of things

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I Am Sixty I Shall Wear A Hat

When I am sixty I shall wear a hat

Whether it be cold or not

I’m not sure what you think about the idea

The weather notwithstanding

I feel the time has come to adopt a little style

To assume a certain persona

A characteristic feature by which I am known

And seen about the town

I haven’t yet made a decision about the gloves and scarf

Although I think both are highly unlikely

For I do not want to be too encumbered

In my daily perambulations

But a modest titfer perched aloft

Covering what remains of my thin hair

May be that thing which is missing from my life

And makes a certain statement

And although it may slow me down

Owing to wind resistance

Its shape being unlikely to be streamlined

Perhaps I might appear a little taller

And people will recognise me from a distance

As I go about my daily business

And say to one another ‘there he goes –

That man who wears a hat because he’s sixty.’

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

It Being Solstice Day At the Stones.....

Tunnelling

The journey down to Devon and Cornwall,

In the Summer wasn’t always great fun -

Sitting in traffic-jams and congestion,

Whilst travelling down to the sun.

But there were sometimes compensations,

Like Wiltshire’s rolling scenery to see:

Everywhere grand archaeology,

During standstills on the A303.

And nowhere more pre-historic,

Could you think of by the side of that road,

Than the formation known as Stonehenge,

Built by some chaps covered in blue woad.

It dominates the very landscape,

The greatest monument for miles around:

A Bronze-Age millennial survivor,

No finer inspiration to be found.

They’ve stood there for so many centuries,

Weathered sarsens of an age Neolithic,

The cross-lintels and the earthworks,

Whose meaning has passed into the mythic.

But now the bureaucrats have got a hold,

And in a mass of red tape it’s to be bound,

Not satisfied with the Visitor Centre,

Everything’s heading under the ground.

Yes, they’re gonna build a big tunnel,

To whisk through the traffic in the main,

Beneath the wonderful countryside,

Missing the glory of Salisbury Plain.

They’ll be watching the route on their sat-navs,

And yakking away on their hands-free phones,

Whilst hurtling under what’s interesting,

The majesty of those standing stones. 

But that’s what happens with progress,

It’s a great pity, and I’m willing to bet,

It’s not about myths, or megaliths,
But “are we nearly there yet?”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Sex Toy

Sex Toy

I’ve been hunted down by a cougar:

Compared to her I’m nothing but a boy.

She’s an older woman with libido,

Now that I’ve become Nancy’s sex toy.

That woman’s fierce and relentless,

And she never seems to tire.

At nights she keeps me prisoner -

I’ve become her object of desire

I’ve told her I’m too old for this game,

In between my wheezes and puffs,

But she just smiles back at me sweetly,

And whips out the pink furry hand-cuffs.

I mean – it’s tiring for an old guy like me,

A weak excuse it’s got to be said,

But it’s pretty difficult to argue,

When she’s got me chained to the bed.

She’s got this amazing repertoire of tricks,

That reduces us both to wrecks.

There’s nothing she draws the line at,

In her pursuit of over-age sex.

I do what I can to satisfy her urges,

And I’m not trying to be coy,

But it’s really quite kinky,

What she does with my winkie,

Since I’ve become Nancy’s sex-toy.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Vegas

Vegas

Across an open trackless waste of nothing, big emptiness of sand and grit

bare, featureless but for random rocks, burned-brown mineral wilderness

tinted yellows, golden ochres, burnished reds

small, sharp shadows etched into the earth by a relentless sun that scorches,

torches out its solar energy, unchanging, fierce and blazing

crumbled endless horizon, heat-hazed beyond the cactus-pocked wasteland,

desert spikes the only landmarks in the monotonous sprawl

fit for snakes and scorpions, bleached-white bones scoured and scrubbed,

sand-blasted testament to creatures that once expired, fried alive, tired and shrivelled

beaten by heat and thirst, exhausted years before

in vain attempts to cross the arid expanse

the dust eddies and whorls aimlessly

tormented, driven by staccato wisps of wind, mindless in their rolling, roiling,

un-tamed in their blowing, drifting, piling, through the thin air of nothingness

scraping, scratching all before them, hot-raked, roasted, parched and toasted

in this waterless wasteland of nowhere

and the vast-canvas painted azure mid-day sky a painful, brittle, acid-hard mono-blue

shimmers unending, clear and cloudless, oxygen-free and static-loaded

an all-embracing carapace of glare mantling over distant concrete structures

The Strip, Caesar’s Palace and Luxor, white and crimson neon ads rolling
enticing punters from hot sidewalks to step inside their cool and dark interiors

for cold beers, slots and tables, the flimsy-dressed hostesses shivering

in the chill of dam-powered air-conditioning

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 18th June 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 18^th June 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Citizens of the town were left shocked and bewildered this week when the leader of one of the minor parties in the Town Council resigned his position, citing incompatible differences between his public position and his private beliefs.  Tim Carryon of the Local Independents of Devizes for Democracy (LIBDems) said that his personal faith in Devil Worship and Animal Sacrifice had made it difficult for him to represent some of the farmers in his local constituency.

2.      And the Leader of the Town Council, Theresa Green, has come under fire by members of all parties after failing to show sufficient humanity in her dealings with the great unwashed of the borough.  Following the death of one of the town’s revered pigeons in the Market Place last week, the leaderene did not attend the memorial service, nor contribute to the fund for the support of the pigeon’s relatives.  It was left to the leader of the Opposition, Jezza Bored-Thin, to carry out the required emoting, by becoming one of the bird’s coffin-bearers.

3.      For details of these and all other Devizes stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station D-Town F-off.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Menage A Trois

Menage A Trois

I’ve always fancied a “menage a trois”

(That would mean two others plus me),

But what is the right combination

Of the two sexes required to be?

Of another man I might become jealous,

And the woman would always be tired.

Two men are bound to be competitive,

For which one of us she desired.

Two women and I’d be caught in the middle,

Then again that might not be a bad thing,

Although I’d be the one that was exhausted,

No – the alarm bells are starting to ring!

Perhaps such an arrangement isn’t for me?

Three in a bed and you’re never alone!

No – scrub that one for an idea -

I think I’m better off on my own!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

It's Complicated

It’s Complicated

Ernest courted Mary for many a day,

But I’m not telling it strictly right,

As it was Mary that courted Ernest,

For commitment gave him a fright.

The two walked out for many a month,

But Ernest never asked her to wed,

So Mary, becoming impatient,

Turned to Ernest and imploringly said:

“You’ve been avoiding my family,

And you’ve not met any of them yet.

Why don’t you come and meet mother?

I think it’s time the two of you met.”

So Ernest said he would, but didn’t mean it,

For he’d heard all about mothers-in-law.

He was sure if he met the old lady,

She’d soon point out in him every flaw.

So he’d walk Mary up to her house,

Always refusing to come in for some tea,

Then he’d give her a quick peck on the cheek,

Before turning on his heel to flee.

Then one day the lovers were out walking,

And bumped into a young girl passing by,

“At last! You get to meet my step-mother!

Didn’t you know that she’s younger than I?”

Ernest was thus introduced to this beauty.

He was overcome and soon lost his head,

In fact he preferred her to Mary,

And presently married her instead.

Now his mother-in-law is his wife,

And his ex-fiancée is his step-daughter:

You see-  I told you it was complicated,

When men don’t behave like they oughter!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Audrey's New Man

Audrey’s New Man

Apparently, Audrey’s got a new man:

She met him via internet dating.

For she’s been far too long on her own,

And it’s time that she got back into mating.

On good authority he’s a nice bloke,

Quite chatty and easily amused,

Only one previous relationship,

Almost new, because he’s hardly been used.

So - not much renovation to be done,

And little reconstruction needed.

He’s almost ready to be moved in with,

And there are no warnings to be heeded.

Yes, Audrey’s very pleased with her new man:

I hope that this time she’s going to be happy.

She’s a bit of a man-eater to be honest -

No-one knows what became of her last chappy!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Don't Tell Me

Don’t Tell Me

Don’t tell me what his bloody name is, for it’s not at all important

And don’t tell me how old he was, because I do not need to know

I don’t care what he was like to be with at his school

Nor which college he went to, or what subject he studied

Whether he was a good student or not

Don’t tell me all about his family

Of his mother grieving in her disbelief

Of his father long gone missing

Or of his brother now gone into hiding

I have no interest in his general profile

Of his background and how he was brought up

Don’t tell me about the places where he used to go

And do not guess at his beliefs, religious or otherwise

And spare us all the speculation on his motivation

The careful planning and the murderous intent

Don’t tell me whether he was a person of special interest

Or whether he was known to the security services

And do not talk of the limits on immigration

Or of second generation integration

Nor waste my time explaining the meaning of jihad

Or about the programmes to prevent radicalisation

Because none of that really matters now

In fact you can spare me the whole bloody back-story

Because I simply do not want to know

But tell me more about the victims

Their names and tender ages

Unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time

Caught out by the bomber’s blast

Who suffered and were caused to die

Tell me about the devastated families

Who will have to live forever more with grief unbounded

And to make the funeral arrangements

For their dearly departed loved ones

And tell me about the paramedics

The emergency services and the first responders

Those who risked their lives to try and save the wounded

Those whose job it was to pick up dismembered body parts

And to re-assemble them to make them whole again

To allow their formal identification

Tell me about the police and ambulance men

The forensics and the explosives specialists

Tell me about the homeless men who tried to help

The taxi drivers who offered lifts

The cafes that gave away hot drinks

And the hotel workers who offered rooms and blankets

I want to hear about these heroes, not that villain

And please - don’t tell me that I’ve got that wrong

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Escape From The Zoo

Escape From The Zoo

It was nearly midnight in the zoo,

And hardly a creature was stirring.

The lions and tigers were fast asleep:

All you could hear was their snoring and purring.

All except for the armadillos,

For they are nocturnal you see,

And on the inside of the compound,

Is not where they wanted to be.

 

They’d started digging three tunnels,

But had only managed to create holes,

So they’d done a deal with some of their friends,

And drafted in an army of moles.

Construction went on almost constantly,

But, of course, it was safer by night,

And there was only a hundred yards left,

Before they could say good-bye and take flight.

But the zoo-keepers became suspicious,

Realising that not all was still fine,

For leading away from the enclosure,

They spotted ten molehills all in a line

Next night they suddenly swooped,

And moved the armadillos to a new pen,

Where the floor was made of strong concrete,

Saying “let’s see you get out of that then!”

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017