Fleeting Madness

Fleeting Madness

“Amor brevis furore est”

That day I thought my heart would burst

The blood boiling in my veins

A sickness at my stomach

Butterflies within

Every time I looked at you

Your eyelids flickering in the dazzling sun

Your lips parted in a gentle smile

Of mockery

And perhaps some pleasure

Reckless in my words

Hot and hasty, unthinking

Desperate to please, to promise anything

Urgent pleadings, passionate

Almost painful

Burning and breathless

Frightened lest you should turn away

I see it now

As a fleeting illness

Lasting but a little time

From which the fever passed its crisis

Symptoms resolved over many seasons

The heat now long dissipated

Calmer feelings restored

Cooler emotions to the fore

That messy madness gone

Replaced by a fine and clear indifference

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 6th November 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 6^th November 2016

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

                                                        

1.       In a stiffly-worded letter, a firm of solicitors in Bromham has told the Parish Council that it must actually debate items on the PC agenda before making any decisions which affect the future of the whole village, and that it’s simply not enough to ask old Fred in the back bar of The Wounded Ferret what he thinks about it.  The PC says it will ask another firm of solicitors what they think about the matter before deciding what to do. Old Fred was not available for comment.

2.       A possible armed insurrection was narrowly averted in the village last night, when a number of fires were deliberately started, and firearms could be heard being discharged across a wide area.  Following a tip-off, the cellars of the Social Centre were searched, but no explosives were found.  Gunshots continued to be heard throughout the evening, but the perpetrators could not be discovered.  Although several distress flares were seen in the night sky, police officers were unable to trace those in difficulty, and now believe that the whole thing may have been a treasonable plot.

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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Daughters

Daughters

When did it start to happen?

Was it as soon as you were born

or was it even earlier

as you floated warm in 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 desiring dollies

and petting puppies and kittens

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 delicate issues

involved in the 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

within the sisterhood

And a new respect

for a mother long-ignored

and who once had little time for men

the masculine, muscled males

with their crude loudness

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

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 2016

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 2016

Bread with chive, yoghurt & oats

Recipe for: BREAD – Chive, Yoghurt & Oat Bloomer

Ingredients:

·         350ml warm water

·         1 tsp fast action yeast

·         1 large bunch chives, finely chopped (or use spring onions, or onion)

·         200ml yoghurt

·         400g strong white bread flour

·         100g strong wholemeal flour

·         2tsp salt

·         Handful oats

·         Oil for kneading

Method:

1.       Pour water into a large bowl

2.       Add yeast & chives & mix well

3.       Stir in yoghurt

4.       Add salt & both flours, mixing well

5.       Pull together into a single sticky ball

6.       Leave in the bowl, cover with a clean cloth & leave to stand for 10 minutes

7.       Lightly oil worktop & knead the dough gently for 10 seconds

8.       Return to bowl, cover & leave for a further 10 minutes

9.       Knead again for 10 seconds, return to bowl, cover & leave for 90 minutes, until risen by at least half

10.    Prepare two dinner plates: on one put two sheets of kitchen paper, wet with water.  On the other spread out a handful of oats

11.    Line a large oven tray with baking parchment

12.    Get the ball of dough & roll it on the wet plate to moisten the surface, then roll around in the oats until they stick all over, then place into the baking tray

13.    Cover with dry cloth & allow to rise again for about an hour

14.    Heat the oven to 220C/ fan 200C

15.    Using a serrated knife slash the top of the loaf diagonally five or six times

16.    Bake in the hot oven for 40 minutes until golden

What else you need to know:

1.       This looks complicated, but it isn’t!

2.       The loaf will be thin and flat & will develop a very firm crust

3.       It has a lovely sourdough type taste to it – delicious!

4.       Great with soft cheeses

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 remark about the wayward rambling roses

Casting gloomy shadows over the dining-room windows

Pattering against the glass, making it seem so much darker

They needed severely cutting back

And she would speak to Jenson

When next she saw him

Then David said suddenly that he could see you at last

And we turned around to look

The chairs creaking gently

And spotted you high above the gallery, walking towards the round tower

Patterned by its cloaking ivy-tendrils climbing

And the white signals of your dress

Flashed between the crenellations of sandy-coloured stone

And so we called out to you and waved hello

The house was looking at its best

Hazel-growth softening the harsher edges

And we admired the summer blooms

The grass yielding 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 so small to you

Dolls or puppets on the lawn acting out some domestic scene

Within the grand setting

As you regarded us below

From your parapet-high vantage-point

Staring down at us from above

And the breeze caught your hair, made it float serene

Your eyes calm and steady as if taking in the view

Your face cool-composed, your arms held high aloft

A mumbled prayer perhaps at the very moment

When we all looked up once more

And watched you step out

Into thin air

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Sunday Dinner

Sunday Dinner

Hands just washed, all at table

Watching Mam come rushing in

From out the steaming kitchen

The old roasting tin still smoking

Piled high with Yorkshires

Tall and brown and crisp

Dished out quick enough onto cooling plates

With a lake of Oxo gravy thickened as we like it

And finished up in minutes in case there’s one left over

Simple batter puddings to fill our grumbling stomachs

Then the cindered joint of beef

Cooked to the usual formula

Gas mark eight for two hours

When it’s brown, it’s done

But when it’s black, it’s buggered

Lifted straight out of a searing oven

And asking Dad to do the usual

As if anyone else would ever be allowed

To carve the burnt offering

Small, careful, wafer-thin slices

Spread out to look like more

Mam hawk-eyed watching

And quickly passed around till all are served

The grey meat livened up with Colman’s English mustard

And then the roasties handed round

The shining fat still dripping down

Always with 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

Reluctantly eaten

Only 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 Bird’s thick custard

Topped off with a skin

That nobody seems to want

Feeling full-to-busting

“FTB” says Dad

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 an hour

Before it’s time for Sunday tea

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016