Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th September 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th September 2019

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Police in The Vize are investigating the theft of a diamond-encrusted urinal.  It was previously installed in the 1^st floor lobby of the Town Hall, just above the old council chamber.  It is thought that the thieves were driven by a sense of nostalgia, and a desire to continue to piss upon the powerful from above.

2.      And the publication of his memoirs by ex-Mayor Willy Wontee has provoked a shower of protests and derision from all sides of the political spectrum.  Book-sellers have catalogued the book under “fiction”, and gift-makers in the town have been inundated with orders for really tiny violins.  Even the Town Hall dog, Towser, has been seen vomiting in the gutter.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Pain

Pain

Never dialled 999 before

Never knew how pain could cripple me

Never been in such agony before

Never knew how long two hours could be

Never been in A&E before

At any time of day or night

Never met Sister Morphine before

Never known such sweet delight

Never realised how frightened I could be

Staring hard into the unknown

It doesn’t matter who else is with you

You’re really facing it on your own

Pain is such a personal thing

And it carries all before

Obliterates every other feeling

Kicks every emotion out the door

And when it’s finally gone away

When the drugs have kicked its ass

It’s almost impossible to remember

How such terror could have ever come to pass

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Alchemy

Alchemy                                           

Flames flicker in the soot-blackened hearth,

Spreading shifting shadows, faint slivers of light,

As he finds his stash, opens up his treasure,

And samples the precious liquid bright.

The bottle unstoppered, now pouring,

Holding carefully, the glass he gently grips.

Deep ruby-red, thick viscous elixir,

He brings the dark drink up to his lips.

Sweet liqueur, spreading ease and warmth,

Through both body and the soul,

He wonders at the chemistry involved,

To achieve this alchemic goal.

Never telling of his secret source,

Where the bowing blackthorn grows,

Guarding the special knowledge,

In the place that he alone knows,

Where, on a dark and misty morning,

Gathering frost-crusted blackened fruit,

Sour sloes, purple, bunched and bitter,

Berries barbed by thorns down to the root.

Hands scratched and pricked, fingers aching,

Bags of fruit booty stolen one day.

Cleaned, bruised, the sticky fluid easy flows

Into gin, then sugared, shaken, stowed away.

Weeks waiting, days dawdling, the magic starts,

A transformation, slow but steady,

Watching, wondering, the bottles shaken daily,

Until the new tincture is finally ready.

But this alchemist has no strange equipment,

Nor is there any wand or magic spell,

To create this luscious liquid,

From such base materials, so well.

In the darkness something strange occurs

Between ingredients once so rough.

Sourness transports to gentle sweetness,

And the passage of time proves enough.

Then, captured within each bottle,

A winter drink that’s red, and thick and oozy,

Not to be wasted on the cocktail set,

But kept for those who are more choosy.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Cheddar Torpedoes

Recipe for: BREAD – CHEDDAR TORPEDOES

Ingredients:

·        550g strong white flour

·        1 tsp salt

·        1 tblsp mustard powder

·        300g cheddar, cut into small cubes

·        1 medium onion, finely chopped

·        300g warm water

·        2 tsp fast-action yeast

·        1 medium egg

·        Oil for kneading

·        1 egg, beaten, to glaze

·        Freshly-ground black pepper

Method:

1.      In a large bowl mix together the first five (dry) ingredients

2.      In a jug whisk the water, egg and yeast until smooth

3.      Pour this into dry ingredients and mix carefully to form a smooth dough

4.      Set aside for 10 minutes, covering bowl with clean tea-towel

5.      Lightly oil a worktop and knead the dough for just 10 seconds

6.      Return dough to clean bowl, cover and leave for an hour

7.      Line two oven trays with non-stick paper

8.      Divide the dough into 5 or 6 pieces, shaping into long sausages

9.      Place on the lined trays, covering and leaving to rise again (about 50% to 100%)

10.   Heat oven to 220C

11.   Brush torpedoes with beaten egg and grinds of black pepper

12.   Bake for 20-25 minutes until evenly golden

13.   Cool on wire rack

Orchard

Orchard

Through damp and dewy grass steps a man,

Then a line of people walking,

Bearing up the woven wicker casket,

Faces up-turned, wondering, quietly talking.

Beyond the farm, before the woodland

Lies the old orchard, long-abandoned trees,

Grass grows longer every Spring,

And apple blossoms blizzard in the breeze.

Shafts of sunlight dapple the procession,

Making its determined way:

A purposeful expedition,

Come because they still have much to say.

Quiet dignity settles around these walkers,

Making their way within the glades,

Arriving at the place where two men stand,

Discreetly waiting, leaning on their spades.

A special spot, where a grave is dug,

Bearers pause, shift the weight, lower the bier,

The others slowly gather round,

Begin their farewells in the grove that’s here.

Each taking an unbidden turn to speak:

No need for a man in black who leads.

One will sing, one recite a poem,

A child steps forward and slowly reads.

Sudden silence falls across these friends,

Then some gentle weeping’s sound.

Fresh flowers placed upon the coffin,

As it is slowly lowered in the ground.

Blossom rains into the gaping grave,

Perhaps some promise of re-birth.

Mourners begin to think again of the living,

Turning their backs upon the mound of earth.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Ghost Train

Ghost Train

So badly over-grown and deserted,

The fact is there’s very little left to see.

So hard to make out what went on here,

And how crowded this place used to be.

Here, beyond the fence, where grasses grow thick,

Lies a gravel track-bed that gives away a clue -

There - you can just make out the old station,

Where once the old branch-line ran through.

There’s no rails, nor any sleepers,

Revealing the place’s one-time function,

Nor the steam trains which left from here,

Wheezed up to the bend, then on to the junction.

Passengers, parcels and packages

On the up train, sometimes the down,

Carried from here in the country,

To their many purposes in the big town.

My dad used to come here in the mornings,

To bring the milk down from the farm,

Sending it in great churns to the city,

To keep it cool, and safe from any harm.

He had a job to be here on time,

Driving the old tractor down the lane.

Sometimes he had to race to the station,

In order to meet that early milk train.

In some ways it’s not so long ago,

But the line succumbed to the usual fate,

With the land sold off to developers,

That’s now sitting under a housing estate.

But it’s strange how the mind can play tricks,

How, when it’s wet, the coal I still smell,

And when the wind blows in the from the West,

There’s the sound of the old station bell.

There’s the steam, the oil and the smoke,

Of the engine waiting the signal to leave,

The whistle of the guard, the slamming doors,

A bustling scene that’s easy to believe.

And sometimes in the lonely night-times,

Maybe it’s a dream, or perhaps it’s quite true,

But I’d swear I can hear rattling milk-churns,

And the scream of the ghost-train passing through.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Stripes Of The Prisoner

Among the dark shadows of the jungle,

Out of the sun, in the heat of the day,

I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,

And rest my aging bones, as is my way.

Advancing years have not been kind to me:

My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.

There are no younger ones to comfort me.

I spend my time here ever more alone.

My inscrutable stare is fading fast,

Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.

Soon I will fade into the background,

And there will be no more of my type.

You were afraid of me once long ago,

But now I’m the one that’s afraid.

Death waits around the corner for me:

A price that’s soon to be paid.

My looks are my downfall,

My fierce beauty inspires your greed.

You just have to have me:

I can supply one of your needs.

My fur is my curse, my tail a collector’s item,

My nose, my ears and my paws,

Everyone wants a piece of my action

My eyes, my tongue, even a slice of my claws.

I’m worth more dead than alive;

My very rarity is my value,

But there are so few of us left now,

That I have to be protected from you.

These last few forests must be my home,

A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,

But the fear and the respect have faded:

I’m a prisoner in all but my name.

Your children will not see me or my like,

Our image a strange forgotten sight.

The flame of our existence,

No longer burns in the forests of night.

So look upon me whilst you can.

There’ll be no more roaring jungle calling.

From this point there’ll be but a silence,

Except the sound of a single tear-drop, falling.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019