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 2012

Strange Memories

Sunday School

The dead time after Sunday lunch

Lies heavy on the day

And Dad sits reading his paper

Absorbing sordid stories of fights and fornication

Waiting for the house to fall to rest

While Mum does her fussing about

Busy but pre-occupied

About the coming afternoon alone with Dad

Washing and wiping my face

Polishing my appearance

Dressing me in Sunday Best

Transforming a rowdy child into a little angel

A reflection of a clean and happy home 

Sent off through the silent streets

On my best behaviour

To walk to Sunday School

And receive religious education

With a promise of sweets if I’m good

And possible Hell if I’m bad

But definitely no tea, and early to bed 

A Methodist Chapel built in stone

Soot-blackened among the houses

Its grey doors opening into the hall

Of musty smells and dusty floors

Little classrooms with metal-frame windows

Hard chairs and benches

Like real school, but less fun

Cheerless and comfortless

To hear stories, miracles and parables

Chapter and verse

Read from a black-backed bible

Of Jesus and Jerusalem

Mary and Joseph

And the meaning of love for one another 

Then, topped up with goodness for another week

Running home for some play before tea

To strain the last dregs from the day

And wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down 

No interest in what I’ve been doing

The hymn-singing and prayers

The collection for the missionaries in Africa

But a strained atmosphere at the tea-table

Mum walking on eggshells again

And Dad not speaking, staring into the fire

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Your Hand

Your Hand

I felt your hand holding tightly onto mine

To keep me from falling down

When I struggled to stand and walk

Unaided by your side

Stumbling through my early steps 

I felt your hand gently touching mine

To stop me losing heart

And keeping faith with all my dreams

When I doubted my own intentions

Finding my uncertain way to you 

I took your hand close within mine

To show that we would be forever joined

You and me against the world, my love

Words and promises and rings

An affirmation of intentions 

I held their hands when they were small

So they should know that I was there

Other lives that looked like mine

But better, brighter in every way

My hopes for a greater future 

And when I could no longer move

Nor leave this deathly cancer bed

Your hand held tightly onto mine

And you talked and talked into the night

So that I should never be alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

News From Bromham - dateline Sunday 17th June 2012

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – 17^th June 2012

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

·         Excitement boiled over in the village this week when plans were announced for the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 Carnival.  Tristram Piglet, the famous film director, who has his holiday home in Bromham, and who has been coerced into designing the opening sequence, has revealed his scheme, based on the theme of “Bromham in Bloom”.  It will feature several displays of massed vegetables, including an imaginative use of carrots in a picture of an owl.  The display is expected to be seen by a Wiltshire-wide audience of nearly 70 people.

·         People across the village have gone back to the polls today.  After the failure by all parties to form a Parish Council six weeks ago, it is hoped that this renewed election will allow the Council to move forward.  Political commentators outside the area have widely interpreted this as effectively a referendum on Bromham’s continued membership of Wiltshire celery standard.  Voters are faced with a stark choice: either to elect councillors who will reject Wiltshire’s imposed austerity measures on celery, or whether to pull out of growing celery altogether.  Villagers seem unable to decide, but none of them likes celery anyway.

·         Sport:  Bromham Casuals’ shock 3-2 win over The Swedes on Friday night, even without star striker Dwayne Mooney, means that they continue to harbour slim hopes of reaching the Quarter Finals of the West Wiltshire Doggybix Cup.  A massed crowd of nearly seven people gathered in the Social Centre to listen to live radio commentary on Carrot FM, and wild scenes erupted when the final score came through.  Either that, or it was closing time before the final leg of the skittles game had been completed.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

The Day The Juice Ran Out

Powerless

An empty calm descends

The house cooling and falling into silence

As motors cease their humming

TV and radio dumbing down

Their chatter and bulletins

Hushing to join this armistice

Of quiet within the day 

Juice no longer in the wires

Plugs and sockets redundant

Clunky, hard, dead things

Lying unused, discarded

Their life-force spent

Retreated down the circuit

Beyond a small switch far away 

No energy, nor electrons flowing,

No easy electrical force

No pumps or motive power

No timers, clocks or lights blinking

Alarms disabled, motors crippled

Equipment and components lying still

As if awaiting further instructions 

A deathly hush ensues

Through empty rooms and corridors

Broken only by a ticking mantel clock

Its clockwork power beating out the passing time

In the darkening, gloomy light

As the quiet falls heavy and unsettling

With a presence of its own

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

Sea And Sand

Sea and Sand

Huddled behind wind-breaks

On candy-stripe deck-chairs
Naked toes wriggling in the cold sand

Watching children play among their castles

The long, chilly day stretches ahead

From the sea-wall to a distant horizon                                                                            

Optimistic sun-hats and lotions

Jostling with novels and newspapers
In the beach-bags of bosomy matrons

While damp, gritty bath-towels

Shield the modesty of wary teen-agers

Changing out of cold wet swim-suits

 

Seagulls scream in the slate-grey sky

Perhaps portending later rain

Before the distant tide comes back in again

The waves sliding up the chilly beach

Erasing empires built along the shore

And enforcing the general retreat

 

Flags and windmills rescued from the water

The last desultory donkey-rides taken

Before heading to the esplanade

And a long promenade along the windy pier

To reach the lonely telescope

Which points towards a blackened sea

 

Then fish and chips in warm, greasy paper

Or cockles and mussels in plastic cups

The waft of vinegar sharp and pungent

Competing with the fresh seaside air

Seeking shelter against the elements

On the seats behind the life-boat station

 

Later licking ice-cream and candy-floss

While steadily feeding slot machines

In glittering amusement arcades

Where one-armed bandits eat piles of tanners

Before being driven back along the Front

To buy rock and Kiss-Me-Slowly hats

 

Reading every comic card on the twirling stands

A quick game of football in the park

Krazy Golf, then Pitch and Putt

Sauntering back slowly

To kill more time before facing high tea

And the tyranny of the guest-house landlady


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012

When I Was Older

When I Was Older

When I was older, things made much more sense

And everything kind of hung together

In a way I no longer understand

Life was serious, dull and boring

In a black and white sort of way

But it got me through the years

To get me where I am today 

When I was older, I knew clearly who I was

Where I was going, what I was doing

And who was near and dear to me

I played the role of responsible adult

Father to my children, husband and provider

Worker, money-maker, decision-taker

Lover, and sometime man of leisure 

When I was older, I grasped what it all meant

What mattered, and how to get things done

I knew who you were then

Why you left me and where you had gone

I hid my small box of cares and worries

And I kept the lid tightly closed

So that you should never know 

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

The smells, the sounds, the sights leap right out

Everything is there in full colour

I find that I have nowhere I need to go

I need not make any great decisions

Except what I should have for my dinner

And what time I’d like to go to bed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012