Silbury Hill

Silbury Hill

Looming above us, occluding

We walk forward into its shadow

And for a while we are darker, cooler

Welcoming its shade on a hot day

We begin to skirt around

Following its rounded even contours

Till we emerge again minutes later

Beyond the ancient mystery

First the halo’d penumbra

Then the eye-blinding flickering flash

Of unfettered sunlight

The same people, yet changed

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 21st May 2017

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 21^st May 2017

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

                                                  

1.      Confusion in The Vize this week as all the main parties variously leaked, lost, published and/ or defended their various manifestos in the upcoming election for the new Town Council.  The Wessex Wailers and the Wiltshire Wombles were at total loggerheads over the issue of taking complete control of the railway network in the area, until the Lib Dems pointed out that The Vize hasn’t actually had a rail link since the 1960s, and the Greens wanted to turn it into a cycle path anyway.  The Blues are pushing for public executions for littering and poor parking, to be carried out in the Market Place every Monday morning (Bank Holidays excepted).  The Reds would like to increase Council spending by building a by-pass – preferably through the middle of Poulshot (because nobody actually like Poulshot).  However, following a snap poll, it was confirmed that the Apathy Party is currently in the lead.

2.      And in Society News, tremendous excitement in the town this week, when a D-list minor celebrity (whose name no-one can actually remember), but with a famous arse, married a man nobody knew about.  The man, with no known redeeming features, was not available for comment.  No-one knows what first attracted the socialite to the millionaire banker.  Nearly seven people attended the short service at St Knickerless church.  The vicar requested that confetti should not be thrown in the churchyard.  The reception was held in the Cellar Bar of The Crippled Donkey public house, and three sausage rolls were left over at the end.  And people say that not much ever happens in this town.

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

An Occasional Gardener

An Occasional Gardener

Along the old familiar lane

And up to the house that was my home

With a key that still fits within the lock

And turns easily as it always did

The rooms inside mostly empty

Awaiting a some-time final removal

Then stepping out to the garage and the shed

The garden and the greenhouse

To find the cobwebbed tools and mowers

Needed to give the old place its weekly trim

A short back and sides

To keep its neat appearance

And to do the running repairs

Until someone else can grasp the baton

And I can cease these painful visits

No longer an occasional gardener

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

If That's The Truth (You Can Stick It)

If That’s The Truth (You Can Stick It)

They say that honesty’s the best policy,

That we all have a duty to be straight -

Well, I’m not so sure about that, my friends,

Or that the truth is really so great.

So let me tell you what I know to be true,

And let me speak exactly as I find,

Then you can all judge for yourselves,

And be ready to make up your own mind.

I’m getting older, and will get no younger,

I’m no longer down there, deep in the groove -

There are bits of me moving south-ward,

And everything hurts or creaks when I move.

I prefer Radio 4 to Radio 1 -

I find it easier on the heart.

I’ve lost track of pop music -

I’m turning into an old fart.

I no longer feel butch,

I don’t follow fashion and such,

My house is the size of a hutch,

My hands are clammy to touch,

And I’m drinking too much.

My clothes are out of date,

I’m succumbing to fate,

My life I’m starting to hate,

I never hear from my best mate,

And I’m well over-weight.

I owe taxes to the Revenue ,

That’s what it says on my statement.

I don’t have any money stashed away,

And now they’re chasing for late payment.

My children have flown the nest,

Even though I gave them my best,

I no longer pass every test,
I don’t get enough rest,

And everything’s gone West.

Sex is less interesting (or possible),

My libido’s right down on the floor.

I’ve lost touch with everybody,

And my girl-friend don’t love me no more.

  

We’re buggering up the planet -

Mankind just seems fixated on war.

It’s all greed and selfishness,

I sometimes wonder what it’s all for.

And the Universe is an infinite void,

Earth just a tiny, meaningless speck,

No other intelligence out there,

I mean – what the heck!

Seems like we’re here on our tod,

And, besides, there’s no God.

Nothing in life is fair,

It’s all wear and tear,

A long bloody nightmare,

Why should we bother to care?

I’ve got more than a hunch,

That as we take punch after punch,

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

Politicians deceive and they lie,

So I’ve become a cynical old guy,

No matter how hard I try.

There’s no answer to “why?”,

Children continue to cry,

The odds we can’t defy,

Life’s a bitch

And we’re all gonna die!

I may sound uncouth,

Bitter and twisted forsooth,

But ain’t that really the truth?

Seems to me that’s exactly the ticket –

We’re all batting on a sticky wicket,

But if that’s really the truth,

Then I’m afraid you can stick it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Land Of The Free

Land Of The Free

I was a great fan of the United States, I just loved their American ways,

So I did the quite obvious thing, and went to the West Coast for my holidays.

To California and Arizona, to discover all that they had to show me,

Then on to the islands of Hawaii, and to the fleshpots of Waikiki.

The mountains, the forests and the deserts, the Pacific and Los Angeles’ nooks,

The Salad Bowl of the continent, Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds and Starbucks.

With pancakes, muffins and super-sizing, those yanks sure know how to eat a big meal:

There’s Taco Bell, and then at Burger King “WMD” simply means a “Whopper Meal Deal”.

There’s the Big Mac, slathered in Monterey Jack, tacos, burritos and Mexican food,

There’s Hershey Bars, in candy jars, eat what you want, whatever the mood.

Of course there’s gallons of Coke and of Pepsi, of Coors and Miller, and good old Bud Lite,

Available in sizes up to a bucket, and most of it tastes shite.

In San Francisco I wore some flowers in my hair, Yosemite’s beauty left me beaming.

I enjoyed Uncle Sam, at the old Hoover dam, and I did my share of California dreamin’.

I travelled down freeways and Inter-States, gambled in Vegas, flew The Friendly Skies,

Got plenty of kicks, on Route Sixty-Six, and discovered that chips are called “fries”.

But there’s only so much that one man can take, and Country & Western songs started to pall.

I longed for a pavement, not a sidewalk, and had enough of Cowboys & Indians, y’all!

So I left my heart in San Francisco, had quite enough of “yee ha!” and such manner,

Travelled back home to England, deserted the Star-Spangled Banner.

I’ve had enough of the flag of Old Glory, as in the breeze it slowly unfurls,

I’m back living in our Scepter’d Isle, and want no more of Hula-Hula girls.

I’m done for a while with The Union, and our cousins there over the sea,

I’m finished with ice-hockey and baseball: no more swimming and surfboards for me.

It might be the land of democracy, peopled by every immigrant wave,

But is it still “the land of the free”? and is it truly “the land of the brave”?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Missing In Action

Missing In Action

I see you very clearly at the start - a living, breathing boy

a Victorian green certificate carefully clerk-inked in neat copperplate,

hard clear evidence of your entry to the world

Again, newly brothered with your Mum and Dad, my unknown great-grandparents,

family members grouped in rows and columns, neat names in the census

together at century’s turn

And yet again, a decade later, stone-mason’s apprentice, following your father’s trade

young, strong, single, patriot to the country’s cause , enlisted, marching away with the Pals,

and then – nothing, vanished from the face of the Earth,

swallowed by Belgian mud, but I’m only guessing,

your service records destroyed, ironically lost in another Blitz

Never married, no death recorded, no longer there when you were needed

dead-ends, as if you had never existed, a withered branch of the family tree

no twigs, no buds, no leaves

gaps in the photographs where you should have been standing

gatherings you ought to have attended, children you never had

cousins you failed to provide

and sometimes I can hear your voice filling empty spaces in conversations

in the folk-lore of family

Already long departed before I came, not here to meet my arrival

I could never reach out and touch you

it’s as if you’re still missing in action

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017

Independence For Wilsher

Independence For Wilsher

Seems the country’s fast falling apart,

And the United Kingdom’s set to rot,

With independence for the Cornishman,

For the Irishman, the Welshman and Scot.

So what about the claims for Wilsher?

The county of white horses and downs,

The shining jewel of South-West England,

The chalk hills and the market towns?

Our claims for EU recognition,

Would be composed of many factors:

We’re much more interesting than Gloucester,

And we’ve got an awful lot more tractors.

So here is my Wilsher manifesto,

To protect all we have in great bounty.

Let’s have belonging, our own identity,

A plea to be a Sovereign County.

We have our own history and landscape,

Our mythology and literature.

We’re a persecuted minority,

But the people are odd – that’s for sure.

Look at Marlborough and Avebury,

Malmesbury Abbey’s beautiful font.

Then there’s Trowbridge and Melksham,

Places that nobody else would want.

But what about Bradford and Salisbury Plain?

Lacock, Castle Combe and Devizes?

And lots of lovely little villages,

Whose names on-one ever recognises?

We’ve got the Great Western Railway,

Legacy of Isambard Kingdom Brunel,

And that corridor, of the bloody M4,

Also known as the Highway to Hell.

There’s our Wilsher Ham and our bacon,

The cheese and the bread, and cider-makers,

And there’s great myths and some weird legends,

Silbury Hill, and the tale of the Moonrakers.

Our patron saint could be - St Michael,

Our flower the burnt orchid, neatly cut,

Our bird must be - the Great Bustard!

And the Vly Be On The Turmut.

  

Our special sport could be - goat-nadgering,

And on our peculiar accents I’m banking,

To award a new protective status

To the practice of gander-flanking.

From Fosse Way, Ridgeway and Kennet & Avon,

Our great county will have its revenge,

And the roar of the lions at Longleat

Will be heard beyond the site at Stonehenge.

So let’s assert our independence -

Recognition for Wilsher’s the goal!

We should put barricades on the borders,

Impose some form of passport control.

And fair enough to old Cornwall -

What they’ve achieved is all very fine,

But I’m afraid that I’ve got to now -

I’m walking right round the Wilsher coastline!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017