The Devil's In The Retail

The Devil’s In The Retail

Doing the shopping is always a chore, pushing a trolley down many an aisle,

But on my last trip down to Tesco, I saw something which just made me smile.

I’d come through fresh meat and groceries, and was just picking some bread from the shelf,

When I noticed a miserable presence: in short, it was the Devil himself.

I knew it was him from the pitchfork, his goat’s legs, his horns and the cloak.

Then there was his red face and his sharp teeth, and all round him there was a faint smell of smoke.

But there was something in his demeanour; I could tell that something wasn’t quite right.

He looked miserable, all pasty and drawn:  the demonic presence looked quite a sight.

Now I’m not a believer in Hades, but I couldn’t bear to see him that way,

So I asked Lucifer of his troubles, and this is what he sadly had to say:

“I’ve got a narrowing job description, and Forces of Darkness are facing huge cuts,

We’re out-sourcing Temptation Services, and minor devils are out on their butts.

And the price of gas goes ever upward, so we can’t afford to run the fires all night.

The Tormentors have asked for higher pay, and Hell’s budget has got very tight.”

Then he swished his forked tail around for a bit, and his visage looked dark, and of Death,

He had a bad case of halitosis, and he could have stopped a horse with his breath.

“You see - there’s a lack of believers; no-one these days gives much of a sod.

That’s meant re-structuring the heavens, and down-sizing imposed by the Lord God.

The Book of Revelation’s been revised, reduced to some lifestyle hints and tips,

The number of The Beast is One-One-One, gone are the Horsemen Of The Apocalypse.

Then there’s all of these Health & Safety rules, and the Human Rights of the bad sinners.

We’re not allowed to keep them all starving – that’s why I’m shopping for ready dinners.

The terrible reports on Trip Advisor were the straw that broke the camel’s back.

We’ve had to close the burning lake of fire, and Beelzebub’s been given the sack.”

Old Harry cut a figure quite forlorn, and he was far from a presager of doom,

The smoke no longer swirled about him, and his features showed up clearly his gloom.

He said he couldn’t stop chatting longer – if he’s late then his dog Cerberus yelps.

So I wished The Evil One “best of luck” – well, they say that “Every Little Helps”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

In The Eye Of The Beholder

In The Eye of The Beholder            

I wanted to be one of the beautiful people,

But was it the big thighs,

That led to my demise in their eyes?

Or was it the tattoos that caused them to refuse?

Or perhaps I’m somehow deformed?

Not properly “normed”?

Too short to be sought, too old to be sold.

Or is it because I’m too tall that caused me to fall?

Is it my poor looks, my nips and my tucks,

Or just my sagging buttocks?

They say they’ve tightened their criteria,

And their standards haven’t slipped.

But let’s get to the nitty-gritty:

I know I’m not that pretty,

But I don’t look that shitty –

Can’t they have some pity?

What is it they’re wanting? –

A view selective and snooty,

Where difference is excluded,

And the only pass-book is beauty?

This ghetto of symmetrical features can never reach us.

This apartheid of self-image - what does it teach us?

These discriminations,

Against different genes,

Can only lead to eliminations -

And we know what that will finally mean.

They need to take care,

Before this nightmare,

Becomes more than a game.

For dating and mating,

With too many of their own kind,

Will produce offspring that all look the same.

We need to celebrate the differences that make us all what we are.

The good, the bad and the ugly should all get over the bar.

So let’s cease this paranoia,

And let’s all be bolder.

I know I’m no oil-painting,

But isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th October 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th October 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                                  

1.      The civic crisis in D-Town deepened this week, when Potterne formally declared itself a separate parish entity.  This push for independence and self-determination was met in The Vize with complete disbelief, and the threat of immediate retaliatory action.  The coming week is expected to be very tense, with the very real possibility that units of the feared Market Place storm-troopers will be sent in to restore order and to impose a local curfew.  Round-ups and punishment beatings may become commonplace.  Civil war may ensue.  Or the mayor may decide to just send a very strongly-worded note.

2.      And after more than fifty years, civic papers have finally been released which may throw some light on to the events surrounding the vandalism of the flower baskets in Sidmouth Street in 1963.  However, even at the last moment the Civic Information Agency (CIA) insisted on the redaction of certain key passages of the documents.  We still, therefore, cannot be sure whether “umbrella man” was one of the conspirators or, more likely, was just a man carrying an umbrella.  The vantage point from the bookshop’s first floor remains as poignant today as it ever was, but the grassy knoll has now been covered in a children’s playground.  This can only mean that the conspiracy theories will continue, and D-Town will forever carry a black mark in Wiltshire’s heart.  The present flower-baskets look lovely though.

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

Damaged

Damaged

First thing, beside the Costa on the corner

Serving up skinny lattes and complex cappuccinos

Steamed and foaming milk

And convivial warmth of cakes and coffees

Lies a man wrapped up in dirty blankets

Lifted from the pavement by a doorway step

His tousled unkempt hair

Sits atop a tired grubby face

His dreaming dog asleep beside him

His begging hat but thinly graced by coins

When two acquaintances appear from round the corner

And badger him back to unwanted wakefulness

Disappearing down the alleyway

They re-emerge shambling and refreshed

Eyes like shining diamonds

Perfect pinpricks of concentration

Mumbling something incoherent

Hands and arms working slowly

To counteract the shivering

Poundland and the betting joints

The amusement arcades and the charity shops

Are early thronged with needy punters

And the Closing Down Sale signs flutter in the breeze

A metro-bus signed Sorry Not In Service

Sweeps past the standing shoppers

The crossing’s red light warning not to walk

Across the street a woman calls out

Loudly coarse and raucous

Addressing no-one in particular

Wrapped within a world of her own making

Hauling bulging bags of clothing

And dragging a broken shopping cart

With its insistent squeaky wheel

Crying out across the morning

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Salmon & Leek Lasagne

Recipe for: SALMON & LEEK LASAGNE

Ingredients:

• 2 tblsp sunflower oil
• 1 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1 clove garlic, peeled & finely chopped
• 2-3 large salmon fillets
• 2-3 leeks, trimmed, washed & finely chopped
• Salt & pepper to taste
• 12 sheets oven-ready lasagne
• 50g/ 2 oz parmesan cheese, grated
• For the cheese sauce:
• 75g/ 3 oz butter
• 75g/ 3 oz plain flour
• 800ml/ 1½ pints milk
• Grated nutmeg
• 50g/ 2 oz cheddar cheese, grated

 Method:

1. butter a 3-litre/ 5pt ovenproof dish
2. Steam or bake the salmon fillets for 7-8 minutes
3. remove from the heat & allow to cool
4. when cool enough to handle, flake gently with a fork, discarding any skin & bones.  Set aside
5. heat oil in a large pan & fry the onion and leeks & garlic for 4-5 minutes
6. meanwhile make the cheese sauce
7. melt the butter in a saucepan, add the flour to make a roux & stir constantly for 1 minute
8. gradually add the milk, stirring constantly
9. bring almost to the boil, until the sauce thickens
10. remove from the heat, then add the cheese, stirring until melted
11. heat the oven to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas 4
12. in the buttered dish, spread a very thin line of cheese sauce on the base
13. cover with 4 sheets of dried lasagne, cutting to shape/ size
14. cover with a layer of the flaked salmon & cooked leeks/ onions, then about a third of the cheese sauce
15. cover with another layer of dried lasagne sheets, then salmon/ leeks, cheese sauce
16. finish with a layer of lasagne sheets, topping with the last of the cheese sauce
17. sprinkle the top with the grated parmesan
18. bake in the oven for about 45 minutes, until the sauces are bubbling up at the edges & the top is golden brown

Midnight Riders

Midnight Riders

The gentle swishing of the rubber on the road

With whirring wheels and gears well-oiled

Reduced to almost stealthy silence

Sudden dashing apparitions

Cycles swift looming from the shadows

Sweeping across the empty car parks

The wrong way down the one-way streets

Along the forbidden pavements

Through the empty market place

No hands and leaning back

High up in the saddle

And the occasional wheelie

Just because they can

No lights or identifying marks

Darkened clothing

Caps and hoodies

Goggles and scarves

To cover up their faces

Leaving only slits of hungry eyes

Like wind-bitten Wild West horsemen

Or hyenas creeping in among the houses

Under cover of the darkness

The menacing forms of phantoms

Or ghostly insubstantial wraiths

Fast-prowling round the town

To occupy the territory of the night

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Alchemy

Alchemy                                           

Flames flicker in the soot-blackened hearth,

Spreading shifting shadows, faint slivers of light,

As he finds his stash, opens up his treasure,

And samples the precious liquid bright.

The bottle unstoppered, now pouring,

Holding carefully, the glass he gently grips.

Deep ruby-red, thick viscous elixir,

He brings the dark drink up to his lips.

Sweet liqueur, spreading ease and warmth,

Through both body and the soul,

He wonders at the chemistry involved,

To achieve this alchemic goal.

Never telling of his secret source,

Where the bowing blackthorn grows,

Guarding the special knowledge,

In the place that he alone knows,

Where, on a dark and misty morning,

Gathering frost-crusted blackened fruit,

Sour sloes, purple, bunched and bitter,

Berries barbed by thorns down to the root.

Hands scratched and pricked, fingers aching,

Bags of fruit booty stolen one day.

Cleaned, bruised, the sticky fluid easy flows

Into gin, then sugared, shaken, stowed away.

Weeks waiting, days dawdling, the magic starts,

A transformation, slow but steady,

Watching, wondering, the bottles shaken daily,

Until the new tincture is finally ready.

But this alchemist has no strange equipment,

Nor is there any wand or magic spell,

To create this luscious liquid,

From such base materials, so well.

In the darkness something strange occurs

Between ingredients once so rough.

Sourness transports to gentle sweetness,

And the passage of time proves enough.

Then, captured within each bottle,

A winter drink that’s red, and thick and oozy,

Not to be wasted on the cocktail set,

But kept for those who are more choosy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Orchard

Orchard

Through damp and dewy grass steps a man,

Then a line of people walking,

Bearing up the woven wicker casket,

Faces up-turned, wondering, quietly talking.

Beyond the farm, before the woodland

Lies the old orchard, long-abandoned trees,

Grass grows longer every Spring,

And apple blossoms blizzard in the breeze.

Shafts of sunlight dapple the procession,

Making its determined way:

A purposeful expedition,

Come because they still have much to say.

Quiet dignity settles around these walkers,

Making their way within the glades,

Arriving at the place where two men stand,

Discreetly waiting, leaning on their spades.

A special spot, where a grave is dug,

Bearers pause, shift the weight, lower the bier,

The others slowly gather round,

Begin their farewells in the grove that’s here.

Each taking an unbidden turn to speak:

No need for a man in black who leads.

One will sing, one recite a poem,

A child steps forward and slowly reads.

Sudden silence falls across these friends,

Then some gentle weeping’s sound.

Fresh flowers placed upon the coffin,

As it is slowly lowered in the ground.

Blossom rains into the gaping grave,

Perhaps some promise of re-birth.

Mourners begin to think again of the living,

Turning their backs upon the mound of earth.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Monday 23rd October 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Monday 23^rd October 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                                  

1.      Storm Brian whirled into D-Town yesterday causing widespread mayhem and panic.  In Long Street a rubbish bin was blown slightly to the right.  On the Crammer the rowing boats had to cope with waves almost four inches high.  But there were no shipwrecks, and nobody drownded – in fact nothing to laugh at all.  And at Number 87 High Street Mrs Eileen Dover noticed that the cat-flap in her kitchen door was making a bit of a noise.  Coming as it did exactly thirty years after the Great Hurricane of 1987, residents had feared the worst.  However Brian proved to be a bit of a pussycat.  Future storms code-named Cecil, Daisy, Eamonn and Fanny are not expected to imbue much in the way of terror.  A storm later in the named sequence, Skull-Smasher, is however expected to be a bit more of a problem.

2.      Whilst Brian was still putting his trousers on, that one-woman hysterical storm that is Ophelia was busy causing mayhem by picking up a bit of Saharan dust on the way through and turning The Vize’s sky a bit orangey.  Some thought it was more sort of yellowey, others that it was “just a bit dark”.  The local branch of the Armageddon-Is-Coming Society naturally went into its twice-yearly meltdown, but yet again was disappointed with the outcome of Monday when the End Of Days turned out to be merely a normal Tuesday.

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

Ghost Train

Ghost Train

So badly over-grown and deserted,

The fact is there’s very little left to see.

So hard to make out what went on here,

And how crowded this place used to be.

Here, beyond the fence, where grasses grow thick,

Lies a gravel track-bed that gives away a clue -

There - you can just make out the old station,

Where once the old branch-line ran through.

There’s no rails, nor any sleepers,

Revealing the place’s one-time function,

Nor the steam trains which left from here,

Wheezed up to the bend, then on to the junction.

Passengers, parcels and packages

On the up train, sometimes the down,

Carried from here in the country,

To their many purposes in the big town.

My dad used to come here in the mornings,

To bring the milk down from the farm,

Sending it in great churns to the city,

To keep it cool, and safe from any harm.

He had a job to be here on time,

Driving the old tractor down the lane.

Sometimes he had to race to the station,

In order to meet that early milk train.

In some ways it’s not so long ago,

But the line succumbed to the usual fate,

With the land sold off to developers,

That’s now sitting under a housing estate.

But it’s strange how the mind can play tricks,

How, when it’s wet, the coal I still smell,

And when the wind blows in the from the West,

There’s the sound of the old station bell.

There’s the steam, the oil and the smoke,

Of the engine waiting the signal to leave,

The whistle of the guard, the slamming doors,

A bustling scene that’s easy to believe.

And sometimes in the lonely night-times,

Maybe it’s a dream, or perhaps it’s quite true,

But I’d swear I can hear rattling milk-churns,

And the scream of the ghost-train passing through.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Among the dark shadows of the jungle,

Out of the sun, in the heat of the day,

I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,

And rest my aging bones, as is my way.

Advancing years have not been kind to me:

My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.

There are no younger ones to comfort me.

I spend my time here ever more alone.

My inscrutable stare is fading fast,

Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.

Soon I will fade into the background,

And there will be no more of my type.

You were afraid of me once long ago,

But now I’m the one that’s afraid.

Death waits around the corner for me:

A price that’s soon to be paid.

My looks are my downfall,

My fierce beauty inspires your greed.

You just have to have me:

I can supply one of your needs.

My fur is my curse, my tail a collector’s item,

My nose, my ears and my paws,

Everyone wants a piece of my action

My eyes, my tongue, even a slice of my claws.

I’m worth more dead than alive;

My very rarity is my value,

But there are so few of us left now,

That I have to be protected from you.

These last few forests must be my home,

A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,

But the fear and the respect have faded:

I’m a prisoner in all but my name.

Your children will not see me or my like,

Our image a strange forgotten sight.

The flame of our existence,

No longer burns in the forests of night.

So look upon me whilst you can.

There’ll be no more roaring jungle calling.

From this point there’ll be but a silence,

Except the sound of a single tear-drop, falling.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Lamb Shrewsbury

Recipe for: LAMB SHREWSBURY

Ingredients:

• 4 lamb cutlets or rumps (inc bones if possible)
• 1 tblsp oil or dripping
• 2 tblsp redcurrant jelly
• 1 tblsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1 lemon juiced
• 120g open-cap mushrooms, thinly sliced
• 1 tblsp flour
• Salt & pepper
• Grated nutmeg
• 250ml good meat stock

 Method:

1. heat the oven to 150C/ fan 130C/ 300F/ gas 2
2. season the meat and, using a roomy flame-proof casserole, brown it in the oil or dripping until well-coloured and the fat on the meat has been rendered
3. in another pan, over a very faint heat, melt the redcurrant jelly, Worcester sauce and lemon juice
4. lift out the meat & set aside, tipping away the fat except for about 1 tblsp
5. add the mushrooms to this, cooking till golden, then add the flour
6. stir until the flour has cooked out – 1 to 2 minutes
7. add the melted jelly mixture & the stock, stirring to obtain a thickened gravy-ish consistency
8. return the meat to the pot, & bring back to a gentle simmer, grating over the nutmeg
9. cover & cook very slowly for 1½ hours, checking occasionally
10. once cooked, lift out the meat & carefully slice into two or three pieces
11. place on a hot serving plate
12. skim any excess fat from the top of the mushroom gravy (using sheets of kitchen paper or a turkey-baster), check the seasoning & spoon over the meat

Walking At Avebury

Walking at Avebury

Dark and dreary December afternoon,

Weak, slanting sunshine that begins to fail,

Walking around the circles at Avebury,

Amid sarsen standing stones in shadows pale.

Light snow covering the lonely landscape,

Earth is robed in its ghostly cover,

The jagged monuments standing starkly,

Embracing the silence, like a lover.

Most of the visitors have now departed,

The pub and the car parks all deserted,

Rushing home to New Year’s Eve festivities,

Whilst here is soon to calm reverted.

In the weakening light, my mind plays tricks,

And imagines ancient figures walking,

Carrying out some ritual practice,

Whispering, gesturing, and talking.

Slowly, the place returns to ancient times.

Peopled again, the circle starts to fill,

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

And the brooding bulk of Silbury Hill.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky,

Stands the giant earth-work, the great mystery,

A monument built by many thousand hands,

Speaking to me still from beyond pre-history.

And the avenue of stones, leading away,

Stretching off beyond my current sight,

Through the chalk-land, into the far distance,

Disappearing, almost, into moonlit night.

Perhaps towards Stonehenge, or the barrows,

Across the Downs, through the deserted land,

With some deeper meaning or purpose,

That we still cannot understand.

Did these shadow people build these ancient structures,

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

What is the purpose of these megaliths?

Is there a symbolic meaning rare and rich?

Are these stones placed exactly where they are,

In a circle of precise refinement,

Because of certain heavenly signs,

Which required a particular alignment?

I watch these unknown men of yesterday,

Creating such things with roughened hands,

Carving out this place of mysteries,

From the cold and unforgiving lands.

Their ceremonials mean naught to me;

As I watch the graceful gestures of their priest.

I hear the chanting, musical singing;

The fires burn bright, and they fall to feast.

Is this rite about the living, or the dead?

Are they looking back, or to their New Year?

This solstice-time pagan celebration

Must have a purpose which to them is clear.

Such great gathering of tribal men,

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

To propitiate their shadowy gods,

Or worship the Sun, the Moon or the Earth?

But I cannot ask – they are only ghosts;

Their figures disappear from present view.

My mind comes slowly back to current times,

And I view the archaeology anew.

By now, the place is dark and desolate.

I shiver against the penetrating cold.

I turn away to take my journey home,

And reflect on these great people of old.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Boys Will Be Boys

Boys Will Be Boys (The Spirit of Adventure)

Long, lazy, summer-time, school holidays,

Feeling frowsy in the long dry grass, so bored.

Waiting, languidly, for things to happen:

The itch for excitement that cannot be ignored.

It’s time for adventure, or some trouble:

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

They all wanted to be a part of it,

None of them by cowardice caught out.

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

Who’s going to be involved quite fully?

Who’s pushing who to make the first move?

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

It’s become a matter of honour to go,

No-one wants to appear the baby child,

Egging each other onwards to the place,

Three boys, scared to hold back, running wild.

The house stands deserted and forlorn,

Behind its barrier of tangled wire,

Its broken windows like empty sockets,

Tumble-down, decrepit and so dire.

It’s a simple target to be raided,

Undergrowth to keep them quite hidden,

Forcing down the old, broken back door,

Past where it says “Entry Is Forbidden”.

Plaster has fallen away from dirty walls,

Damp, mouldy, a smell that’s musty,

Broken floor-boards, glass everywhere,

Mouse-droppings, filthy and dusty.

Here was once the lounge, now long deserted,

A kitchen with many pipes hanging out.

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

Too busy exploring, and running about.

Here is a place with possibilities,

A secret space for a ghoulish game.

No limit to a child’s imagination,

Or the ideas that are in the frame.

A new head-quarters for their gang,

A pirate’s cave, or hidden treasure,

A robber’s den, a secret hideaway,

To torture their enemies at leisure.

But what if someone already comes here?

Beggars, or thieves or a filthy tramp?

How can it be made safe and secure?

How to establish their own camp?

Rooms up above must be inspected,

In case someone else is hiding there.

Their voices fall into edgy silence,

Gathering below the bottom stair.

The youngest one is pushed up to the front,

Nervous and trembling, fearing the worst,

The older ones standing right behind him,

Bullying, taunting, making him go first.

He wants to decline this stupid challenge,

His fear is building, and he feels like crying,

But the others will not let him stop now:

He cannot get away – no sense in even trying.

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

They threaten him with torture, calling names.

Challenging him, shoving him forward,

It’s gone beyond their normal childish games.

The mood has turned quite nasty,

And the laughter has faded away.

They prod him and push him upwards,

They force him – they will have their way.

He bites his lip, and swallows hard.

Though he is trembling and shaking,

He starts to mount the broken risers,

Fearing the dangerous steps he’s taking.

Near the top, his panic rises,

But he never hears the creaking sound,

As he falls through the crumbling structure,

Screaming, arms flapping all around.

A crashing noise and then the silence,

The dust and debris soon stop falling,

The older boys stand stunned, amazed,

Then for their friend start yelling, calling.

He does not answer, lying there quite still.

They know the situation’s far from good:

They run away in a frantic panic,

Leaving the body in its pool of blood.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Night Terrors

Night Terrors

Floating through the numbness of drifting dreams,

Softly billowing, falling and rising,

Seeking, searching, following a distant figure,

Reaching out towards the tantalising.

Then the crack of sound which startles,

The snap of sudden, startled waking,

Bolt upright in the tangle of sheets,

Listening hard, to a silence that’s breaking.

Heavy, deep, suffocating blackness,

Pierced by the thinnest slice of moonlight,

Through a curtain-crack not closed,

Creating shadowy shapes within the night.

Thick, breathing stillness,

Then a creak upon the stair.

A catch of breath -

Is there somebody there?

The house settling, moaning and groaning,

A catalogue of clicks and ticks.

Sounds from out of the silence,

Or is it the mind just playing tricks?

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

The scratchings and callings and shufflings,

Of badgers and mice,

Of owls and foxes,

Their scrapings and diggings and snufflings.

The swishing of wind as it blows through the trees,

And the tapping of twigs against the pane,

A gentle pittering and pattering,

That might be just the winter rain.

But what was that?

Yet stranger sounds abound.

Perhaps those unwelcome creatures, the rats.

Wandering, investigating, nosing around,

Stoats, weasels, bats or meandering cats.

They are out there, safe where they belong,

In the kingdoms they inhabit,

But then, from somewhere out the distance,

The searing scream of captured rabbit.

And, inside now, fear and tension rising.

Blood pumping,

Heart thumping,

Ears straining,

Mind working overtime,

And a sense of terror gaining.

Was that a subtle movement?

Something just over there?

Is something hidden in the shadows?

Is there really somebody there?

Or has a primal imagination,

Seeking to penetrate the gloom,

Created something super-natural,

Standing there across the darkened room?

So scared, forgetting how to breathe,

Unable to swallow, starting to shiver,

Limbs stiff, skin chilled, eyes out on stalks,

Fingers kneading bed-clothes, all a-quiver.

Straining hard to distinguish every sound,

Listening, thinking, hoping, guessing,

An eerie quiet now descending,

Perhaps portending something more distressing?

Primitive and primordial fear,

That traces roots from inside the womb.

Terrors of torment and lingering death,

Staring at the black inside of one’s tomb.

Dying alone – the dark, deepest dread

That everyone cradles inside.

Fear of the dying, more than the dead,

The unspoken horror we all seek to hide.

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

A noise unfamiliar, or unknown?

Or was the whole thing inside of my head,

Created by demons all of my own?

There’ll be no sleep further tonight:

Ghouls and ghosts may wander at will.

Perhaps there’s nobody there after all,

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th October 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th October 2017

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

                                                  

1.      The Media City district of downtown D-Town has been thrown into mild surprise by the increasing number of revelations regarding local impresario and part-time horse-massager Harvey Moonshine.  Rumours of his alleged despicable activities have been rife in the arts circles of the town for many years, but only in the past week has the full scale of his crimes made it as far as the letters page in the Gazette and Herald (Devizes Edition, reaching up to 17 people in print and online weekly).  Now a letter has flooded in, taking the tycoon to task for answering the door in his dressing-gown.  It is not yet currently known why Mr Moonshine has a door in his dressing gown.  It is probably a show-biz thing.

2.      And the leader of the Town Council has publicly refused to ratify the Nuclear Bi-lateral Treaty with Trowbridge.  He claimed that Trowvegas had failed to honour the spirit of the agreement, and continued to be a bad influence throughout all parts of the Badlands of Western Wiltshire.  There are even rumours of a secret military pact with Westbury.  D-Town is expected to increase sanctions against these unruly jihadists by refusing to let the 49 bus run any further west than Semington.  They have been warned!

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

Bonfire

Bonfire                                              

Cool, calm, short winter day,

Wood, waste, weeds on the fire,

Cleaning up garden detritus,

Piling them on the pyre.

Flames flicking, licking the leaves,

Smouldering, spluttering, smoking,

Throwing out gases and fumes,

Wheezing, coughing and choking.

Eyes watering and damp,

Smoke and steam in the air,

Getting too near the fierce heat,

Singeing eyebrows and hair.

Leaves and branches catching,

Wood crackling, bark cracking,

Twigs breaking, snapping,

Greying and blacking.

Consumed by the inferno,

Noises quite troubling.

Sap escaping and hissing,

Oozing, boiling and bubbling.

Feeding the fire, adding the fuel,

Working through the waiting stash.

Destroying everything fed to it,

Reducing all to glimmering ash.

What’s rotten, what’s rubbish,

Infestations of grubs and of bugs,

Contagions of parasites,

Creepy-crawlies and slugs.

Logs gently hunkering down,

As they slowly dismember.

Fire blazing, burning and charring,

Settling to black and red ember.

Now a rising smoke signal,

Showing the task as complete,

Nature’s waste products,

Disappearing in that searing heat.

Cleansing, cleaning, clearing,

Consuming, eating with ease,

Twisting, turning and burning,

Killing off the rot and disease.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Monkfish with a Red Pepper Sauce

Recipe for: Peppered MONKFISH with Red Pepper Sauce

Ingredients:

• 500-900g monkfish, off the bone, deveined, cut into large chunks/ rounds
• 2 tablespoons mixed whole peppercorns, ground roughly in a mortar
• 4 tblsps olive oil
• 2 tblsps plain flour, seasoned with salt
• For the red-pepper sauce:
• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 2 medium red peppers, de-seeded & cut into strips
• 2 medium tomatoes, skinned & chopped, (or use two from a tin)
• 1 clove garlic, peeled & minced
• 3 anchovy fillets, chopped
• Salt & freshly-milled black pepper
• 3 tblsps balsamic vinegar

 Method:

1. make the sauce first by heating the oil in a medium-sized saucepan, adding the strips of red pepper & tossing them around constantly in the hot all, till they start to catch
2. add the tomatoes, garlic & anchovies, stirring to mix
3. lower the heat right down, cover & let the mixture stew very slowly for about 25 minutes, or until the peppers are completely soft.  You may need to stir a couple of times.
4. pour the mixture into blender & whizz to a coarse puree
5. taste & add salt & fresh-ground pepper, then the balsamic vinegar
6. set aside – you can serve the sauce cold, or warm it through to serve hot
7. now cook the fish.  Heat the oil in a large heavy frying pan big enough to take the fish pieces
8. roll the pieces of fish in the seasoned flour, then in the rough-ground pepper, pressing the bits into all sides
9. fry the fish in one or two batches for about two minutes each side, until tinged with brown
10. to serve, put a puddle of the red pepper sauce onto each plate, then carefully place the cooked fish pieces into the puddle

 What else you need to know:

1. it looks complicated, but it’s very easy
2. the dish has quite a zing to it & looks impressive

Roundway Hill

Roundway Hill

Sitting at last, gathering breath,

From the hard climb up the track,

Staring across the ancient landscape,

Allowing myself at last to look back

Towards the far village steeple,

Rising through late morning haze,

Shimmering in the distance,

Attracting my sun-dazzled gaze.

Calves and feet gently aching,

Boots well covered in fine dust,

Kicked up by my plodding progress

Through the chalk’s crumbling crust.

Orchids peer shyly through the long grass

Of this upland meadow where calmly I wait,

Tiny, quick flashes of colour,

Right down the track to the gate.

Butterflies dance in gaudy profusion,

Fluttering round, ignoring the heat,

And a fox flees into the wood,

Less than fifty yards from my seat.

Far below me, down in the cornfield,

Seeming like dots, are boxing hares,

Standing, running, darting and feinting,

Pre-occupied with Spring-mating cares.

Recovered, exhaling slowly,

Back on my feet, I continue the climb,

The steady tramp, tramp of the boots,

Marking out the rhythm of time.

Head gently clearing, eyes lifting,

Up to the summit of the long hill,

Driving my aching legs forward,

With the sheer force of my will.

No thought for the tension and stress,

That can clutter my mind these days:

Exhaustion drives it all out,

And calms my soul in so many ways.

Daily detoxification

Can be found on this high ground,

And the tiredness of an aching body,

Works like a drug, leaving me sound.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Old-Age Non-Pensioner

Old-Age Non-Pensioner (or Growing Old Disgracefully)

I’ve just reached a certain age now,

But I have to tell you the truth:

As you can all plainly see before you,

I’m still in the first flush of my youth.

For age affects us all in different ways,

There’s no use in trying to hide:

It’s time to get out & declare it:

I’ve become a member of Grey Pride!

I may have to go for a medical,

And lay on the doctor’s bed all prostrate.

I’ll hear the snap of the marigolds,

When he’s about to inspect my prostate.

There’ll blood & urine samples to give:

It’s really not very nice.

I’ll be told “Stop smoking, and drink less,

And take more exercise”.

For I’ve got to keep healthy,

To avoid increasing debility.

Keep my mind & body active,

And ward off approaching senility.

I’ll get increasingly forgetful,

As I become a bit of a part-timer.

I’ll try to keep mentally agile,

And avoid contracting Alzheimers.

There’ll be hardened arteries to cope with,

As I approach age fifty seven,

But to help me at home these days,

I’ve got a Stannah stairlift to heaven.

I can look forward deafness,

And eye-sight that grows ever dimmer,

But at least I won’t need a road test

To go for a spin with my Zimmer.

With spreading waist, dodgy knees & joints,

The outlook’s increasingly “grey”,

And every day I’ve noticed,

That my toe-nails seem further away.

I’ve become follically challenged:

At least that’s what they say that it’s called,

But when I was that much younger,

They just used to say you were bald.

As more of my body parts stop working,

And my memory I’m starting to doubt,

I’m falling prey to more illnesses:

The wheezing, the coughing – and, of course, gout.

  

But I’m told that I’m a silver surfer.

My computer has got lots of ROM,

And now I can get a subscription

On a site called Confused.com.

And there are some compensations,

Which come as quite a relief,

For whatever else I might be losing,

You know I’ve still got my own teeth.

So I’m going to grow older disgracefully,

And go out without my glasses.

I’ll probably get lost in the High Street,

And start chasing the older lasses.

But now I guess it’s off to Help The Aged,

To seek some help & dedication.

So I’ll see you all sometime later:

It’s time to take my medication.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017