Riversong

cascade creek environment fern
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Stop!
Slow your pace to a meander
that I may spread my waters
like a sheet upon your bed
here upon my mossy lap take root
and reflect as do I
on the shifting sky
while my babel tongues
hush to still
slow
thought
this moment
now
trickles through your fingers
and moves on –
a journey ended
when only just begun
I with my spate and flow
gather the rubble from a thousand dreams
pour over rock
seep into cracks
and smooth
and break
and soothe
and make
tomorrow
today
yesterday

Kath Sunderland

Hodge Close Quarry

It’s only a big hole in the ground, man-altered over the span
Of two centuries while all distant history carried on around.
Until, one day in the fifties, the men left and the pumps stilled.
Let us again go down the steep, well trodden path to where
The pool filled slowly and is now deep and black as shadow,
Edging the smooth slate cliffs, reflecting what light there is.

This created space, as through a lens of glass, affirms, fixes and
Enhances our time, place and space in this world.
The overarching rock frames the secretive pool and surely
Here, if the muse exists, and is at large, she will whisper and
Quietly invite us to come again, even as we head up and out
Onto the old flat ground where the white birches grow.

There are places we visit and pass through, while others
Make us linger and return. They exist quietly and being quiet
May become notable and significant, allowing acquaintance.
They become resonant with occurrence and memory which
Even when far away and distracted by ordinary concerns
Awakens a response, urging us to strive to go where the light is.

Colin Dixon

Inside there is everything!

bottle equipment factory fix
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It doesn’t look much from the outside, but inside there is everything! Behind this heavy metal door, which once slammed across her fingers … eek! Up came her shoulders as she winced at the memory. On entering, it occurred to Katie that no matter what the temperature outside – hot as it was on this summer’s day- the temperature in her Dad’s workshop was always the same. She delighted in visiting with the workshop when it was empty. No angry circular saw, threatening to take fingers, good job her Dad was steady. No welding sparks, sizzling and glowing with a drifting stench that hits your nose. She felt pleased her dad cared for himself. No clashing hammer and whirl of wood- chewing drill. He has learnt how to use his tools well, she mused. Feeling full in today’s stillness, this silence had a back drop of a gentle hum from the cylindrical light and the beat and breath of herself. Katie began tinkering. Ruffling in the sawdust rug, to find discarded wood and opening oily dust clad boxes filled with treasure. Her eyes cast about in awe of myriad things, waiting to be useful and myriad tools, waiting to make use of things. With hammer and nails Katie turned her piece of wood into a work of art, leaving it in pride of place on the workbench.

I look at my feet on the floor – the sawdust rug is still there. My Dad’s workshop has changed location, how it feels has not changed at all. Every nook and cranny filled up and it’s all him. My Dad’s steadiness, his care, his strength and ability to make and mend, his big heart emanates from this place. I don’t come in here much now, although when I do it still fills me, Katie spent many an hour breathing it in and tinkering. Leaving her work behind, wanting to know and be known. I believe Katie achieved her goal, I do know and I am known. I don’t need to know anything else. I don’t look much from the outside, but like my Dad and his workshop – inside there is everything!

Catriona Messenger

Ode to Mungrisdale Writers

DSCF0990
Trevor, 4th from right, click to enlarge

I am, I hope, attaching my Ode to Mungrisdale Writers for your perusal. If you can find time to read it, can you tell me how many well known songs, all favourites of mine over the years, have gone into the writing of the piece? There is a prize for the one who gives the nearest number, once the invigilator (Doreen) has checked your song titles, to prove your number is not just a guess. Love and best wishes to you all. Trev

Angela and classmates, you are the wind beneath my wings, it is not within me though to soar as high as the examples set each meeting, perhaps some of you are literary Eagles, whilst I am a Rook or a Crow. When away from the class, you are all, always on my mind.

Joining the class was one of the best things that ever happened to me, it made me wanna shout “read all about it”, but for once in my life I have tried to stay composed.

Once when I was little, I planned to be a writer, I told my brothers I’m into something good, we were young we were free, but I can see clearly now that dreams require talent in order to come true, so to avoid the highway of regret and the risk of Desolation Row, I am working hard get back on top.

However, if my mediocrity can make someone happy, it will content me, because for me nothing compares with the joy of laughter. Your love and support is lifting me higher, though sometimes I feel I am flying without wings.

I just can’t help believing that one day I will retrieve the book within me, otherwise no satisfaction will be achieved, this however could be the last time, I could soon be out of time.

Thank you all again classmates, I am writing this to make you feel my love and let you know that you are all I need to get by, you are simply the best, better than all the rest.

When the pieces don’t fit anymore, I could be on the dark side of the street, unable even to get my Mojo working. When my pen runs dry I will resort to memories, memories of all of you, realising that our friendship and coming together was just another brick in the wall of my life.

Trevor Coleman