Daughters

Daughters

When did it start to happen?

Was it as soon as you were born?

Or was it even earlier

As you floated in the amniotic fluid?

Or even at the moment of conception

In a complex interplay

Of genes and chromosomes

That the differences began?

The females of my species

Developed along a very different path

From the ways that I had known

And had their own concerns

That yearned for pink in everything

(When I know full well

That such a colour

Never crossed our minds)

And took to wanting dollies

And kittens and puppies

From a very early age

And then grew up all too quickly

Soon giggling in barricaded bedrooms

Confused by active hormones

Pre-occupied with latest hairstyles

And clothing in the fashion magazines

Or brands of make-up and shampoo

And the sensitive removal of body hair

Or the base behaviour

Of the latest boyfriends

And who fancied who at school

Then the greater changes

Of maturing mind and body

Ripening into an all-at-once adulthood

With its sudden sensibilities

Of the female and the feminine

And the ferocious gender-bonding

Among the sisterhood

And a new respect

For a mother long-ignored

And who had little time for men

The masculine, muscled males

With their loudness and crudeness

Their football and sporting obsessions

And testosterone-driven lives

When did you girls grow into women?

Was it something subtle that I missed?

How did you grow so far apart from me

And became so very different?

And how many years has it taken now

For us to hardly know each other once again?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Bedtime

Bedtime

A careful journey through the house

Starts with the regular routine

The easy things at end of day

Of switchings-off, and shuttings-down

Of locks and bolts and doors

And the silences that quickly fall

Within the lounge and in the kitchen

Then heading for the staircase

And the reluctant nightly climb

Towards the empty, darkened corridor

That harbours brooding shadows

And perhaps conceals an unseen something

Now trying to hold back a creeping fear

And the mounting tension

Engendered by an empty house

And too many nights of loneliness

Fumbling round the corner of the wall

With a trembling, groping hand

Seeking out the elusive switch

That will illuminate the feeble bulb

And banish darkness

From the space along the landing

And the hurried steps

Echoing against the plaster walls

Towards the master bedroom

Past the other door, her door

The one that never opens now

And diving quickly into the empty bed

To banish this unwanted fear

This irrational paranoia

And to try to fall sleep

Yet again alone

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Looking Up

Looking Up

We waited for you

To come and join us on the lawn

The tea cooling in the pot

And David said he thought he’d seen you

Climbing the back stair-case

Not long before we had come out

And mother made some conversation

About the wayward rambling roses

Near the dining-room windows

Causing dark shadows

And tapping on the glass

They needed cutting back

And she would speak to Jenson

When next she saw him

Then David called out that he could see you

And we turned and looked up

And spotted you high above the gallery

Walking towards the round tower

The white flashes of your dress

Between the crenellations

Of sandy-coloured stone

And we waved hello

The house was looking at its best

The growth of ivy softening the harsher edges

And we admired the summer blooms

The grass springy under our feet

And we called out to you again

While David talked about the wedding

Busy with arrangements

His face shining with happiness

We must have looked quite small to you

Children or puppets on the lawn

Acting out some scene

Within the grand setting

As you regarded us from your vantage-point

High up there upon the parapet

Staring down at us from above

And the breeze caught your hair

Your eyes calm and steady

As if taking in the view

Your face quite composed

Your arms held high aloft

At the very moment

When we all looked up once more

Just in time to see you step out

Into thin air

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner

Hands washed, all at table

Before Mam brings it in

From the steaming kitchen

The still-smoking old roasting tin

Piled high with Yorkshires

Tall and brown and crisp

Dished out quick enough

Served onto cooling plates

With a lake of Oxo gravy

Thickened as we like it

And finished up in minutes

In case there’s another going

Simple batter puddings

To fill a grumbling stomach

Then the cindered joint of beef

(Chicken being a luxury)

Cooked to the usual formula

Gas mark eight for two hours

And when it’s brown, it’s done

But when it’s black, it’s buggered

Lifted straight out of a roaring oven

And asking Dad to do the usual

And carve the burnt offering

As if anyone else would ever be allowed

The small, careful, wafer-thin slices

Spread out to look like more

Watched like a hawk by Mam

And quickly passed around till all are served

The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard

And then the roasties can be handed round

The shining fat still dripping down

With plain carrots or peas

Nothing fancy, plain as always

And what used to look like sprouts

Boiled to within an inch of their lives

Waterlogged and dangerous to know

Pushed to the side of the plate

And only eaten when threatened with no pudding

The scraping of knives and forks

On chipped and mismatched plates

Hides the murmurs of approval

But no time for chatting amongst the rapid eaters

And first to finish asks if there’s any seconds

But there hardly ever is

For nothing’s ever cooked that might be wasted

Except the remnants of the joint

That will make our Shepherd’s Pie

Or rissoles on Monday

Same as every other week

Then the siding away of dirty plates

And the clattering of the cooking dishes

Piled up in the sink to soak amidst hot, soapy water

And the inquests on any leftovers

Before the pudding bowls and spoons

Put in their appearance

A fruit and pastry pie

And lashings of thick Bird’s custard

Topped with a skin that nobody seems to want

Feeling full-to-busting, FTB

Heavy stomachs and shining eyes

Everybody had enough?

Before tackling the washing-up

Arguing over who’s washing and who’s wiping

And who shall put the pots away

Mam now tired and fretful

After slaving over a hot stove all the morning

Driven by the need to prove her metal

Haunted by recent memories

Of war-time restrictions

Of rationing and shortages

Making do and mend

Keeping calm and carrying on

And Gran asleep beside the fire

Leaving Dad to read his paper

And listen to the wireless

Where Family Favourites

And The Clitheroe Kid

Keep us all amused

And Mam can put her feet up for a bit

Before it’s time for Sunday tea

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Birthday Boy

Birthday Boy (reflections on being yet another year older.  My take on existential angst)

It’s funny how things can easily change,

How your view on life drops through the gears,

But your perspective can turn right around,

When you find yourself advancing in years.

I remember the early excitement,

When I was just a very young boy.

The anticipation of birthdays,

Would bring weeks of advancing joy.

How many cards and presents would there be?

When would my mother begin to bake?

How big and what kind of icing,

On top of my own birthday cake?

Would there be a party and some treats?

With games and plenty of laughter,

A day that would stick in the mind,

And provide memories for long after?

But things are all different now,

And I find my trepidation mounting.

After I’d got as far as fifty,

That’s when I really stopped counting.

There’s no special cake I’m having today,

But if bought from a shop you’d need handles.

It would have to be a massive confection,

If there was to be room for all of the candles.

They’d make up a blazing conflagration,

Of that you should have very little doubt,

And I don’t think I’d have the breath these days,

To blow every one of them out.

I’m no longer sure this day’s all that special.

Why make such a fuss of today?

Yesterday had no unique features,

And tomorrow’s just an ordinary day.

The few cards I get from those that remember,

Fall limply through my letter-box.

There isn’t enough of them to make up a pile,

And my birthday hopes are all mocked.

I don’t want to make any bother or fuss:

It would be good to get a nice present,

For I don’t want to be forgotten quite yet,

Or just seen as an ancient monument.

Once I hoped I’d die before I got old,

But you can see I’m not getting younger,

I’ve still got a great zest for life, though,

And for new things I continue to hunger.

And as I reflect on this anniversary,

And I head towards some veneration,

I begin to think about my own children,

And I’m talkin’ ‘bout my generation.

So don’t give up on me too soon,

Just because I’m advancing in years.

I can still go down to the pub, you know,

Yes, I can still sink a few beers!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 2nd March 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 2^nd March 2014

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

1.       The situation in Seend is now critical, with intense diplomatic activity seeking to head off a major regional meltdown.  Troops wearing Trowbridge insignia on their uniforms and carrying Wiltshire-made weapons have been seen massing near the Seend border.  Meanwhile, forces sympathetic to the Western-facing Bromham separatists have taken control of major public buildings like the Post Office and the Primary School.  Both parties are struggling for control of the hearts and minds of the bewildered population.

2.       Tonight sees the glittering red-carpet ceremony that is the BUSKERS (Bromham Urban Shows and Kitsch awards).  There are high hopes for George Piglet who is nominated in the Shiniest Tractor category, Peter Piglet for Greatest Village Idiot, and Sharon Piglet for Most Interesting Call-Girl Advert. 

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Kindling

Kindling

Many years ago

I saw your blackened face

As it shone by firelight

With beads of sweat

Streaking whitened paths

Through the sooty grime

As it dripped into your beard

You stood above the flames

Your features darkened

By shadows flickering

Tending to your bonfire

Watching the orange fingers

Leafing through the pages

As they turned them over, one by one

And burned them fiercely

Within the conflagration

The blasphemous words

Dangerous thoughts

And heretical teachings

Within those banished books

Made easy fuel for flames

Mere card and paper

Covers and bindings

Consumed within the smoke

Rendered down to ash

So that none might read them any more

But now your brow seems furrowed

As you wonder what to do

With all this glass and plastic

Metal and electronica

Casings and batteries

Of phones and iPads

And other hand-held gadgets

That will not catch alight

Nor burn with any purpose

This digital economy

Its airwaves alive with anarchy

Downloaded through the ether

A seditious cyberspace

That cannot be controlled

A communications spectrum

That provides its own oxygen

Requiring nothing else to Kindle

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014