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

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 2016

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 30th October 2016

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 30^th October 2016

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

                                                        

1.       After nearly a hundred and seven years of wrangling, the Parish Council has announced the location of the new cycle lane in the village.  It will be built for about 200 yards along the side of the High Street, but actual construction work will not commence for several years, due to wrangling over the £312 cost, further environmental impact analysis, and the rash of expected High Court challenges from residents living along the intended route.

2.       Last Wednesday saw the intended clearing of the squatter’s camp in the woods near Stoney Lane.  However, the squatter is still actually there, since he was classified as a “vulnerable child” by the authorities.  Social Services are now investigating the needs of the 32-year old child before any final decision can be made on the future of his tent.  The idea had been to move the squatter to another part of Bromham where he would have been free to be a blot on the landscape in a different part of the village, but that plan is now on hold.

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

Turning Into My Own Father

Turning Into My Own Father

It’s of little use

I can see it all now

The mirror does not lie

I find myself looking at a man

That I do not recognise

Yet is alike, and who looks vaguely familiar

Although I cannot quite place him

I’m sure he is not a stranger

The fullness of his face

The receding hairline

Ebbing back above his brow

A distinctive pattern

That I know from photographs

In the sepia tones of generations

Dark and hooded eyes

Look back towards me

Posing unanswerable questions

Full, fleshy uneven lips

Thickening jowls

Jaw-line set heavy

And the slackness of muscles

Etch long, deep lines within sagging skin

And tell a story of their own

Unblinking he returns my stare

His face unreadable

Implacable and calm

But tired, deadly tired

As if this may be the last time

That he will stand so still

Allowing himself to be inspected

His features so exposed

Under the unforgiving bathroom light

And at last I am forced to look away

No longer able to hold his gaze

Nor to make the excuse

That I am too busy

To spend more time

On this sad reflection

And I am left to wonder

If his eyes will continue to follow me

Around the room

Long after I have moved away

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Cat's Cry

Cat’s Cry

How your crying disturbs me

Makes me sit up and take notice

And listen to your distress

To your prowling round the room

Snuffling among the shifting shadows

Along the edges and into deep corners

Seeking something that is not there

And that you will never find

The pitiful, lonely sound

That mewling tone

Of existential angst

That smacks of fear and desperation

And catches at my pity

Snags on something

That makes me want to comfort you

To tell you that it’s alright

That I’m always here for you

But you do not understand me

When I try to soothe you

My words of comfort carry no sense

In your feral feline world

And soon the frenzy passes

Back into forgetfulness

And you resume your normal cool indifference

As you suddenly cease to enquire

Into the meaning of your existence

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

Christmas Cake

Recipe for: CHRISTMAS CAKE

Ingredients:

• 1 lb currants
• 8 oz raisins
• 1 lb sultanas
• 6 oz mixed peel
• 4 oz glace cherries
• 4 oz shelled almonds (optional)
• 10 oz butter, warm or softened
• 10 oz caster sugar
• 6-8 eggs
• 12 oz self-raising flour (or plain + 1 tsp baking powder)
• Pinch salt
• 2 tsps mixed spice
• Grated rind of one lemon
• Juice of one lemon
• Splash of milk or buttermilk

 Method:

1. get two big bowls out.  In the first assemble all the dried fruits, nuts & peel.  Put aside.
2. in the second bowl, put the butter & caster sugar.  Cream them together until light & fluffy.  Be prepared for your arms to hurt a lot while doing this.  While you’re having frequent rests, line & butter a large cake tin with grease-proof paper & set it on a baking tray.
3. when the creamed mixture is ready, add the eggs one at a time.  It’s easiest to do this by lightly beating each egg in a small bowl first, then adding it.  Make sure each egg is properly incorporated before adding the next.
4. when all the eggs have been added, gradually sift in the flour, salt & mixed spice
5. when that’s done add in the lemon & the milk
6. when that’s done, gradually mix in the pile of dried fruit & nuts from the first bowl
7. the mixture should now be a solid mass of ingredients held together by the sponge mix.  It should be of a stiff dropping consistency
8. pile the mixture into the prepared lined cake tin & pat down gently to avoid any major air bubbles.  Smooth the top with a spatula.
9. bake in a low to medium oven (160C/ 150C fan) for about 3 hours.  It’s hard to be precise, depending on heaviness of mixture.  Test from 2 hours onward with a skewer – if it comes out clean, it’s cooked.  The cake should be browned on the top and the sides just starting to come away from the sides of the tin.  If in doubt, give it another 20 minutes, then test again.
10. remove to a wire rack to cool completely, then store & begin feeding.

 What else you need to know:

1. the cake should be made in August/ Sept if possible because it needs time to mature & to be fed before Christmas.  Store in an air-tight container;
2. feed the cake weekly.  You can use rum, brandy or sherry or any combination you like.  Prick the cake all over the top with a fork or a skewer.  Use a tea-spoon to gently pour your alcohol of choice into the holes, then re-seal in the cake container;
3. this cake is wonderful on its own, but is improved when accompanied by a wedge of a white crumbly cheese such as Wensleydale, Lancashire or Cheshire.