Sunday, 17 June 2018

Betrayal

                           The Battle of Sedgemoor           Residents laundry hanging outside of a shop
                                                                                                              in Colyton

 Dear Reader,

I so enjoyed the story this week about Claire Mountjoy from the Devon village of Colyton, the single mother who hung her washing out to dry over her front door.  But local traders instructed her not to hang her washing out to dry because it would lower the tone of the neighbourhood.  In response to this instruction hundreds of residents have taken to displaying bras, nighties, pants and other item of laundry outside their  homes as a show of solidarity with Ms. Mountjoy.  The person who sent the letter claimed that the sight of her underwear was likely to offend passing tourists. The tourists must be easily offended and I think Ms. Mountjoy deserves a medal for showing initiative and brightening her front door up with her laundry.

Colyton first appeared as an ancient village around 700 AD and features in the Domesday Book as 'Culitone'.  It was called the most 'rebellious town in Devon' due to the number of its inhabitants who joined the Monmouth Rebellion in 1685.  The Monmouth Rebellion was also known as 'The Revolt of the West' and was an attempt to overthrown James II, The Duke of York.  Monmouth forces were unable to compete with the regular army and the rebellion ended with the defeat of Monmouth's army at the Battle of Sedgemoor on 6th July, 1685.   Monmouth was executed for treason on 15th July, 1685.

                                                                            *

Betrayal

You were always there
for me, as I for you.
You read to me
you laughed with me
you told me stories
of magic and imagination.

We travelled north and south
to Scotland and the Western Isles
enjoyed Dorset, Devon, Cornwall.
Went to see the Lakes
peeped into Beatrix Potter's house
felt cold in Dove Cottage where
you put my hand in your pocket.

we were one heart beat

But you have gone.
Now I have to try to live
another life
with you not there,
with someone else perhaps
someone to fill the empty gap
you left me with

Please forgive me darling.

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Saturday, 9 June 2018

Small Moments of Warmth

Dear Reader,
                                                                                  Lake Wanaka

This beautiful lake lies at the heart of the Otago Lakes in the lower South Island of New Zealand.  The township is situated in a glacier carved basin on the shores of the lake and is the gateway to the Aspiring National Park.  At its greatest extent the lake is 42 kilometres long.  Its widest point, at the southern end, is 10 kilometres.  The lakes western shore is lined with high peaks rising to over 2000 metres above sea level.

For Maori the Wanaka area was a natural crossroads. Until the nineteenth century Wanaka was visited by Ngai Tahu, the principal Maori tribe of the Southern Region of New Zealand.  They hunted eels and birds over summer returning to the east coast in reed boats.  Ngai Tahu use of the land was ended by attacks by North Island tribes.  In 1836, the Ngati Tama chief led a 100-person war party, armed with muskets, down the west coast and over the Haast Pass: they fell on the Ngai tahu encampment between Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea, capturing ten people and killing and eating two children.  Maori seasonal visits, no surprise, ceased after this.

                                                                               *

Small Moments of Warmth

I remember a little warmth
Joey trotting the family through Norfolk lanes,
the small yellow trap swaying in the sunshine.

I remember picnics on Yarmouth beach
with enough blue sky "to make a sailor's trouser".
We ate sucumber sandwiches.  Penguin biscuits.

I remember dark evenings,
the small warm flame from a Tilly lamp
lighting the kitchen, and sometimes for supper
we had chicken, chocolate mousse.

I remember a warm holiday in France
squeezed into the back of the car,
singing old thirties love songs.

But will these small moments of warmth,
at the end, be enough to heat and spilt
the heavy stones that circle the human heart,
allow salt tears to trickle through the cracks?

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 3 June 2018

Spring Fair

Dear Reader,

                                                                              Fairgrounds

Travelling fairs are 'the unwritten portion of the story of the people, bound to the life of a nation by the ties of religion, trade and pleasure'.  The tradition is living and dynamic and reflects the influence of popular culture in which it operates and, in many cases, it predates the history of the town or settlement in which it appears.

The majority of fairs held in the United Kingdom trace their ancestry back to charters and privileges granted in the Medieval period.  In the thirteenth century, the creation of fairs by royal charter was widespread, with the Crown making every attempt to create new fairs and to bring existing ones under their jurisdiction.  By the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the majority of English fairs had been granted charters and were re-organised to fall in line with their European counterparts.

Currently, over two hundred fairs take place every weekend in the United Kingdom with the Goose Fair in Nottingham and Hull Fair growing in size and popularity every year.

The poem I am publishing today is the story of one of my daughters who, when we went to a fair years ago, just disappeared.  She returned in the morning seemingly no worse for wear.  I never did find out where she went.

                                                                          *

Spring Fair

The young girl
and her mother, holding hands,
hurry down the hill
where the bright lights beckon,
see the big dippers hurtling,
painted horses swirling, yellow
swing boats diving, swooping,
smell the grease and diesel
hear the loud beat of music,
the children's screms.

Young men of the fair,
long-haired, dark, a little wild,
eye the girls with bright,
knowing looks.
The air is full of restlessness, of quickening,
the urgency to act
before the end of the night,
when morning light will move them on.

Dusk falls, the young firl drops her mother's hand,
stirred by the primal desire of early spring.
Running silently she disappears into the night, eager
to share what ancient fires of life can bring.

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Saturday, 26 May 2018

Holding Hands

                             The Road Less Travelled                                             



Dear Reader,

From Gilbert White's diary, 1786, Hampshire

'Much gossamer.  The air is full of floating cotton from the willows'.


From Richard Jefferies, 1881, Surrey

'Do not like cloudless skies so much as the clouds tramping on one behind the other.  The cloudless sky does not look so large.  The sparkles on the water- like butterflies flapping their wings'.


I spent last week in beautiful Cornwall.  Shopped in Falmouth, walked on glorious beaches, visited a fantastic a garden, Trebah, which led right down to the sea, and ate some delicious fish at home and in restaurants.  Our cottage was in Flushing opposite Falmouth which we reached by way of a small ferry.  In fact I was a bit worried about falling down the slippery steps to get into it and was helped by daughter Tiffany and the Ferry Man.  We were so lucky with the weather, blue skies and warm sunshine.

Gossamer is a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, seen especially in autumn.   Or it could be a light, thin, and insubstantial or delicate material or substance.
   
                                                                         *

Holding Hands


The rock pools were difficult
to climb through
but she held my hand, tightly,
encouraged me to walk on.
"Come on Mum" she would say
and we would wend our way
 back home, hand in hand.

Fast forward a few years
and I have a hospital visit.
She holds my hand tightly
encourages me to walk on.
"Come on Mum" she says
and we find the Radiology Dept.

Later holding hands tightly,
we find the car park
wend our way home.
                                                                            *
 
Very best wishes, Patricia

Photographs by Kaye Leggett





Sunday, 20 May 2018

Love unlocked




Dear Reader,

The theme this week has got to be love.  What an amazing wedding Prince Harry and Meghan had, beautiful is every way.  Bishop Michael Curry the head of the Episcopalian Church in America, who has been active in issues of social justice, speaking out on immigration policy and marriage equality, was magnificent and his message of Love was emotional and heart warming.  The Beatles song: "All you need is Love" was always my favourite and one I considered to be the real truth.  With loving friends and family, and if you are lucky a partner, most things can be resolved and even if this is not the case just being loved and loving is great support for getting through.   At least that is what I think.  Do write to me if you don't agree : patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com.


A line or two of:
 Sonnet 116   William Shakespeare

Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom
If this be error and upon me prove'd
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

                                                                               *

Love Unlocked

What can I say about love
that has not been said?
I have little to add except
my sweetheart proffered
a unique key
to the door of possibilites
through loving me.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes and love perhaps, Patricia

Friday, 11 May 2018

Rooks



Dear Reader,




                                                                            Cornish Country Gardens





I am going to Cornwall this week so no time for research into something interesting, or at least, what I think is interesting! and I hope you do too.  So I will just up-date you on the seagull story.

Apparently junk food may not only be bad for humans - it could also make seagulls more aggressive,
according to a researcher looking at their behaviour.  This researcher, one Rebecca Lakin, is studying the impact of urban environment on young gulls across the city, and whether feasting on stolen fish and chips makes them increasingly angry. This study compares the chips and ice cream diet of urban gulls with the traditional menu of fish and clams of their island cousins.  In her research she explores how food digested by gulls will affect them later in life.


                                                                             *

Rooks

I was fourteen
when I first heard
the call of the rooks
caw-cawing
their eerie cries.

From a Cornish cottage garden
I walked down through
dark woods to the beach,
a remote place,
just dunes, sand, the sea
and me, a confused, angry teenager,
with the rooks caw-cawing in my ears
disturbing my thoughts.

Even now, in later years,
whenever I hear whispers from the wind,
or sea lapping over large grey stones
ever forward, ever backward,
glimpse a faraway horizon
and see twilight descending
darkening the sky,
the rooks in large black groups
flying high towards
their eveniong bed,
cawing, cawing, cawing,
my heart misses a beat
and an unexplained sadness
overcomes me.
                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 6 May 2018

Universal Truth

Dear Reader,
                                                                             Foundling Hospital

             Foundlings

                                                                               Foundling Hospital today

I heard on Radio 4 this morning the story of a man who was a 'foundling' having been left on a street during World War 11.  Not knowing much about foundlings I researched and found the following information.   Foundling is an historic term applied to children, usually babies, that have been abandoned by parents and discovered and cared for by others.   Abandoned children were not unusual in the eighteenth century when the Foundling Hospital was established.  In Europe where Catholic-run institutions had been caring for orphans and foundlings from as early as the thirteenth century, the UK relied on the Poor Law to cater for needy families at a parish level.

By the Early 1700s the situation for struggling parents was particularly acute in London.   Mothers unable to care for their children as a result of poverty had few options, leading some to abandon their babies on doorsteps or outside churches or even on rubbish heaps.  This was the situation that confronted Thomas Coran on his return form America in 1704.  It took him seventeen years of dogged campaigning before he finally received a Royal Charter enabling him to establish a Foundling Hospital ' for the care and maintenance of exposed and deserted young children'.

Today, access to contraception, State support for families on low income and changed attitudes to illegitimacy mean that child abandonment is very unusual in the UK.  But in China it had been estimated that 10,000 children are abandoned every year.

                                                                            *

Universal Truth


Everyone knows
that Philip Larkin wrote:

"They fuck you up
your mum and dad,
they may not mean to
but they do".

And what Philip Larkin knew,
I know to be true.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 29 April 2018

Havana Cigars



                                                                                         Sunsets




Dear Reader,

I often read articles in the newspapers about "How to be happy" with various pieces of advice on how to attain this condition.  For myself I think happiness is a bit elusive and am not absolutely able to understand why I am happy when I am, or even why I am not happy when I should be.  I am copying here an entry from Francis Kilvert's diary written on Monday, May 24th, 1875, and wish that I had had an experience such as he had.

"This afternoon I walked over to Lanhill.  As I came down from the hill into the valley across the golden meadows and along the flower scented hedges a great wave of emotion and happiness stirred and rose up within me.  I know not why I was so happy, nor what I was expecting, but I was in a delirium of joy, it was one of the supreme few moments of existence, a deep delicious draught from the strong sweet cup of life.  It came unsought unbidden, at the meadow stile, it was one of the flowers of happiness scattered for us and found unexpectedly by the wayside of life.  It came silently, suddenly, and it went as it came but it left a long lingering sunset, and I shall ever remember the place and the time in which such great happiness fell upon me".

                                                                              *

Havana Cigars

A man walked past me
smoking a cigar,
puffing out the smoke
with its unique aroma
of luxury and opulence.

What memories it brings.

Candle lit dinners eaten,
Cuban cigars passed round
in silver boxes,
nestling in sandalwood.
Talk was of politics, shooting, fishing,
and dubious stories
generating laughter amongst the men.

Cigars at race courses,
smoke and race horse sweat mingling.
Cigars after lunch and coffee,
the erotic smell of tobacco leaves
awakening desires.

Cigars enjoyed by old men
remembering younger days,
cigars in large country houses
with sunlit gardens embracing
the scent of gardenias and roses.
Evening dancing with
partners smelling of claret
and Cuban cigars.

A time of grandeur
of abundance,

another time.

                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 22 April 2018

The Shed


                                                                                   Wooden wheels



Dear Reader,

The Wheelwrights craft is amongst the oldest known to man, with the origins of the wheel dating back to prehistoric times.  It was probably Stone Age man who first realized that a rolling stone or a round log of wood moved more easily than an object which needed pulling or pushing.  The first wheels were simply solid discs, carved out of one lump of wood, with solid wheels made from three shaped planks dating from 5000 BC.  By the Roman period many wheels were very much as the Victorians were making them and wheelwrights have been making wheels in the same way since the early seventeenth century.  The only significant change today is the development of the 'dished wheel' which is shaped like a saucer and has the hollow side facing inwards.

                                                                                *



The Shed

The spider let himself down
from a crack in the rafters.
Time to spin another web,
catch flies, feed his children.
This old shed he loved
had housed his ancestors,
its essence was in his blood.
He knew well the aged wooden bench
laden with hand-worn tools,
the swallows yearly nesting place,
the bees hum and buzz.
He knew of the warmth from the earth floor,
from the hurricane lamp, lit on dark evenings,
of the dusty windows facing north,
and he knew he could swing on the ask spokes
sliced to the wheel hung on the hook.
He knew too that the moonlight
cast quiet shadow on the pile of logs,
home to small scuttling creatures.
He knew that nearby in a bed of shavings,
an old dog slept.
This restful shed scented with lavender and tar,
was a timeless place.

Clearing, cleaning, scraping, peeling,
the old shed becomes new.
Much buzzing and humming
as computers move in, reference books,
filing cabinets, printers, blaring telephones,
glaring lights, and stress.

No quiet shadows now
in the bright new shed
no cracks, no silence, and the spider.....dead.

                                                                          *

Very best wishes, Patricia                                                                           

Sunday, 15 April 2018

The House


                                                                                Traditional Rocking Horse

                                                                                      Rocking Horse


Dear Reader,


The history of the rocking horse can be traced back to the Middle Ages when a popular children's toy was the hobby horse - a fake horse's head attached to a long stick. The rocking horse in its current form is widely believed to have first appeared n the early 17th century.  It was around this time that bow rockers were invented, introducing rocking to the world of horses.  There were, however, improvements to be made to the first rocking horses.  Being made of solid wood they were heavy and their centre of gravity was high so they could easily topple over.  It was in the Victorian age that the 'safety stand' was introduced and the idea of making the horse hollow was conceived.  This made the horses lighter and more stable and gave birth to the idea of a secret compartment being fitted to the horses under belly.  The family heirloom horse could store photographs, mint coins, locks of baby hair and other such trinkets for future generations to find.   During this era the style of choice was the dappled grey rocking horse which was a favourite of Queen Victoria.

                                                                            *

Amazing Seagull story this week:   A seaside resort in Belgium is drugging seagulls with contraceptive pills to stop them being a nuisance.    Birth control will be hidden in feed left out for the seagulls, as part of a strategy that includes the use of fake eggs to fool maternal birds, and drones to detect their nests.   Apparently this move could be copied in Britain.  What next I wonder?

                                                                             *


The House

Was it the sound of Chopin
filling the street air,
escaping from a large keyhole
in the weathered front door,
or the first glimpse of pale
stone flooring and a rocking horse
in the hall corner, or was it the
Easter lilies rising tall out of
white namel jugs, and books
everywhere, everywhere?

Was it the ancient dog
in front of a small log fire,
protected by a staunch Victorian fireguard,
or the scrubbed table and gentian-blue
hyacinths peeking out of a copper bowl,
Rockingham pottery plates
each one different,
or the sculpture of an unknown woman
young, rounded smooth,
placed lovingly on a window shelf
catching a flicker of the January sun?

Or was it the smell of beef stew,
a nursery smell dredged from childhood,
or the sight of home-grown pears
floating in sugared juice?
O was it the feeling ;of safety
warmth and love
everywhere, everywhere
that overwhelmed me?

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Saturday, 7 April 2018

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare




                                                                              Jumping hare

                                                                                Tortoise

Dear Reader

I wrote today's poem when I was in a Poetry Workshop for three days.  It was all very intense and the last poem we were supposed to write had to do with myths, legends or fables.  I thought a small sense of humour would not go amiss and wrote today's poem: A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare.

This is what I found out about tortoises.   The tortoise starts digging the ground to form its hybernaculum at the first sign of autumn.  It digs with its fore feet in a very slow motion and prefers swampy grounds where it could bury itself in mud.   It starts losing its appetite for food as the temperature drops until it stops eating altogether.  During hibernation it stops breathing as well.   The tortoise wakes up from hibernation in the spring but doesn't start eating immediately.  Gradually it gains its appetite and energy as the temperature warms up.  During hot summer days tortoises eat voraciously and spend many hours sleeping.   They start sleeping in late afternoon until late next morning.  Although tortoises love warm weather they avoid hot sun, hiding under green leaves or between vegetation.  Pet tortoises feed on grasses, leafy greens, flowers and some fruit.  Certain species consume worms, or insects and carrion in their normal habitat.

I have always thought hibernating in the winter months was a wonderful idea for myself.  Staying in a warm cosy bedroom under the blankets and sleeping until the spring came seems such a good idea,
especially this year with its gloomy, wet and damp weather going on and on and on........


                                                                           *

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise, shell-encased,
shy and timid, was fond of quiet places.
He ate lettuce sandwiches,
drank bottled water
and did deep breathing exercises.
He was slow alright,
but kept on "keeping one", getting there,
although a little fearful
of what life can bring.

Then, he discovered anxiety pills
and grew bolder,
he opinionated more,
rejected lettuce,
ate avocado and prawn cocktails,
drank vodka,
and tried his hand at salsa dancing.
Confidence changed him.
He became the hare.

Ah ha the hare.

This hare spoke his mind.
He jumped and danced
texted and mobiled friends,
arranged outings,
and had a ball.
But the Gods were watching him,
the sent a "don't forget card"
to remind him of his tortoise life,
his quiet life,
the life that was right and good
for a tortoise.

He threw the anxiety pills away
and slowly his shell grew back,
he started reading again,
he talked less,
thought more,
enjoyed lettuce sandwiches
and drank bottled water.
He became the tortoise
that he was meant to be.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Saturday, 31 March 2018

Realization

Dear Reader,




Easter is the most important date in the Christian calender, and we have just gone through Holy Week.  I have various emotions, but mostly sadness, during Good Friday when Christ was crucified,  and Easter Sunday when He rose again.  I always find the Saturday when he was buried in a cave, the most difficult to get through.  Where was He then, and who moved the stone so He could walk out the next morning?  I have an explanation from my daughter Tiffany who helped me yesterday with Bible references, showing that He was just asleep.  Well whatever the explanation I am always very glad when Easter Sunday dawns and He is resurrected. Alleluia.

                                                                         *

This is a piece from Gilbert White's journal (1771) in Hampshire.

"The face of the earth naked to a surprising degree.  Wheat hardly to be seen, and no signs of any grass: turnips all gone, and sheep in a starving way.  All provisions rising in price.  Farmers cannot sow for want of rain'.


Not quite like here then, when it seems to me that it has rained for about a month without stopping.

                                                                        *

Realization

I am
part of the whole.

I am
in the first light,
the bird's first song,
the sun's first dart
through the curtain crack,
in the music of the trees.

I am
part of the alpha,
the birth,
the awakening,
the growing and spreading,
the throbbing of life.

I am part of all suffering
hands blood-stained.
Part of love
humanity shares and
of all good things.

I am
part of the omega,
the closing, the last light,
the call back from the dark
to the bright, eternal night.


                                                                    *

Happy Easter and Very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 25 March 2018

England Dear to Me

 Dear Reader,

                                                                             Scones and strawberry jam
                                                                                        Foxgloves
                                                                                        Foxgloves

 I have tried very hard over the years to grow foxgloves but sadly it has not been a very successful venture,  I have had very little luck with growing them. But the sight of foxgloves growing in a wood make my heart leap up, spring has sprung and there are signs of new beginnings everywhere.  The foxglove, also called Digitalis purpurea is a common garden plant that contains, digitoxin, digoxin and other cardiac glycosides.  These are chemicals that affect the heart.  Foxgloves are poisonous and can be fatal even in small doses.  Digoxin is derived from the leaves of a digistalis plant. It makes the heart beat faster and with a more regular rhythm.  It is also used to treat atrial fibrillation and heart rhythm disorder of the atria (the upper chambers of the heart that allow blood flow into the heart).

Foxglove flowers are clusters of tubular shaped blooms in colours of white,lavender, yellow, pink, red and purple.  They are biennial which means that plants establish and grow leaves in the first year then flower and produce seeds in the second.


                                                                            *

England Dear to Me

It is the robins, blackbirds, blue tits,
hopping and grubbing in the garden
that lurch my heart
make England dear to me.
It is the velvet of green moss,
oak trees, old with history,
the first cowslips,
hedgerows filled with dog rose, foxgloves
and shy sweetpeas in china bowls.
It is finding tea rooms in small market towns,
enticing with homemade scones and strawberry jam,
or suddenly glimpsing church spires
inching their way to heaven,
It is finding a Norman church,
full with a thousand years of prayer,
and a quiet churchyard mothering its dead.
It is small country lanes, high hedged,
views of mauve hills stretching skywards,
sheep and lambs dotting the green,
and bleached Norfolk beaches,
silence only broken with a seagull's cry.
It is the people,
their sense of humour,
their way of saying "sorry" when you bump into them,
their fairness, and once or twice a year
their "letting go",
singing "Jerusalem" with tears and passion,

It is these things
that lurch my heart
make England dear to me.

                                                                                 *

With very best wishes, Patricia











Saturday, 17 March 2018

Quickening

                                                                                     The Thrush
Dear Reader,



I thought this week I would let you into the way my mind works when writing a poem.  Thinking about what William Wordsworth said about poetry:  'that it was emotion recollected in tranquility', I have always tried to find ways of remembering my emotions about whatever, and then writing a
short poem from my research.  Someone once said my poems were like "watercolours" just small stories giving a glimpse of something that we can all recognise.  So I have always tried to paint a picture of something I know about.  But, and I apologise for it,  I am sorry to say that last week's poem was certainly not up to my own standards.  This was because I was leaving my comfort zone and trying something different.  I had been reading a book about a man, a barrister, whose wife had left him.  He seemed to be a dual personality both generous and kind, and mean and vicious.  Obviously we are all made up of different parts and what I was trying to do in that poem was to show the two sides of this man.  But I don't think it worked from some of the correspondence I have had, and my new resolution is to stay in my comfort zone and take the advice from knowledgeable people to :  'write what you know', and paint my own pictures from self knowledge.

                                                                                 *

Seagull news:  Apparently a giant owl has been hired to stop seagulls threatening alfresco diners in a Welsh shopping street. Elsa the eagle owl which has a six foot wingspan, has been employed by fed-up business owners to patrol the streets of Caernafon for the next six weeks in a bid to deter the gulls,
which they say have become a "menace".  John Islwyn, who handles Elsa, said the owl ensured a "humane way to deal with the seagulls".

                                                                                 *


Quickening

I want the pulse of life that has been asleep
to wake, embrace me, put on the light.
To hear the thrush, song-repeat, to keep
my trust in God to hurry icy winter's flight.
I want to glimpse, under sodden leaves, green shoots
to announce life's circle, its beginnings, have begun
I want to run barefoot, abandon boots,
to walk through primrose paths, savour the sun.
I want to take off winter's dress, change its season,
to see the coloured petticoats of spring, bloom
and show us mortals nature's reason
to start afresh, admire the peacock's plume.
Cellar the coal, brush ashes from the fire,
I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

                                                                                  *

Very best wishes, Patricia


Sunday, 11 March 2018

The Ragbag of a Human Heart

Dear Reader,



                                                                                       Young women



An entry from Francis Kilvert's diary : Saturday, 8th March, 1872.

At eleven o'clock the dog-cart came for me with the chestnut old Rocket, and I returned to Clyro.
Amelia Meredith tells me that at Llanhollantine people used to to to the church door at midnight to hear the saints within call over the names of those who were to die within the year.  Also they heard the sound of the pew doors opening and shutting though no one was in the church.

                                                                          *

I used to live in a very haunted manor house near Beaulieu in Hampshire.  The house was supposed to have been visited by Judge Jeffreys, 1645-1689, The Hanging Judge, known for his cruelty and corruption.   He was one of the judges at the Bloody Assizes which were a series of trials started at Winchester on August 25th, in the aftermath of the Battle of Sedgemoor which ended the Monmouth Rebellion in England.  At these trials a woman called Elizabeth Gaunt had the gruesome distinction of being the last woman burnt alive in England for political crimes.  After the Glorious Revolution Jeffreys was incarcerated in the Tower of London where he died in 1689.

In the panelled room where he would have slept my Alsatian dog always growled when he went in there, and I always hated the room and felt very cold in it.

                                                                             *

The Ragbag of a Human Heart


He saw the girl
young, beautiful, innocent,
inflamed her with clever words,
caught her
seduced her
smiled, walked away.


At the bus stop
he saw an old lady
waiting in the rain,
offered her a lift,
drove her back to her house,
made her a cup of tea,
hugged her,
smiled, walked away.

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 4 March 2018

Sea-Fever

Dear Reader,

                                                                                Sandymouth Bay, Cornwall


'Everyone loves Cornwall" I heard someone say on Radio 4 this morning.  As I am going there on holiday in May, and know very little about it, I decided to do a little research.  It seems the history of Cornwall begins with the pre-Roman inhabitants, including speakers of a Celtic language, Common Brittonic, that developed into Southwestern language and then the Cornish language.  By the middle of the ninth century, Cornwall had fallen under the control of Wessex, but kept its own culture.

To the north of Cornwall is the Celtic Sea and to the south the English channel.  It is Great Britain's most southerly point, with The Lizard and the southern mainland's most westerly point,  Land'sEnd.   In 1337, the title, The Duke of Cornwall, was created by the English monarchy, to be held by the king's eldest son and heir.

Cornwall, along with the neighbouring county of Devon, maintained Stannery institutions that granted some local control over its most important product: tin.  By the time of Henry VIII most vestiges of Cornish autonomy had been removed as England became an increasingly  centralized state under the Tudor dynasty.  In the 18th century the decline in mining saw mass emigration overseas and the Cornish diaspora, as well as the start of the Civic Revival and Cornish revival, which resulted in the beginnings of Cornish nationalism in the late 20th century.

Cornwall today is famous for its pasties, saffron buns, Cornish Heavy (Hevva) cake, Cornish fairings (biscuits), Cornish fudge and Cornish ice cream.  And, of course, for its cream teas, scones and Cornish Clotted cream.

                                                                               *

Not one of my poems this week, but one of my favourites.



Sea- Fever           by John Masefield, 1878-1967

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's
shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call than may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and blown spume, and the sea-gulls
crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and whale's way where the wind's like
a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's
over.
                                                                                  

                                                                                 *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Photographed by Kaye Leggett (www.bertiethebus.wordpress.com)

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Inheritance

Dear Reader,




 Gloucester Old Spot Pigs



Gloucester Old Spot pigs originated around the Berkeley vale on the southern shores of the river Severn in south West England.  They were usually kept in cider and perry pear orchards of the area, and on dairy farms.  Windfall fruit and waste from the dairies supplemented their grazing habits.  Local folklore says that the spots on their backs are bruises from the fallen fruit. Besides its correct title are variations such as Gloster Spot or just Old Spot, the breed is also known as : The Orchard Pig and the Cottager's Pig.  In a book by the Victorian writer, H.D. Richardson, he  concludes that the Gloucester Old Spot Pig was derived from crossing the original Gloucerstershire pig, - a large, off white variety with wattles hanging from its neck, with the unimproved Berkshire, a coloured prick-eared pig with spots. 
                                                                            *

Seagull news:  In Scarborough birds of prey are going to be hired to tackle the growing menace of swooping seagulls.  These birds of prey are 'specifically trained not to kill' the gulls 'but solely to deter them'.   Well its worth  try, I suppose.

                                                                             *

Inheritance

What was it that made me
think of you, who
are bone-dust now,
with no statue or monument
to bear your witness?
Was it the apple-bruised spots
on the Gloucester Old Spot pigs,
their legacy from apple orchards, long ago,
to mark them out?

In the afternoon sunlight
as I bent to touch their skin
I saw that my hands, brown-spotted,
were you hands, identical.
Was this your legacy to me
something to say you were here?

More precious than possessions,
you passed to our inheritance
from some ancient eastern shore.
Your brownness, your hands, brown spotted,
which marked you.

                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 18 February 2018

In Her Spare Room

Dear Reader,


 


                                                                               The Wind in the Willows



I have been reading yet another book about Queen Elizabeth 1's reign, I think it really was such an interesting time in history from every aspect.  The theatre, which I do so enjoy and am lucky enough to live not far from Stratford-upon-Avon, was very popular in the Elizabethan age.  The religious plays which had been very popular in the Middle Ages were banned and new plays were written. These plays were performed in theatres rather than in the wagons that, in the past, travelled from town to town. .
William Shakespeare, 1564-1616, wrote plays at this time and his plays are still performed all over the world, he is probably the most famous playwright who ever lived.  in 1576, the first theatre was built in London so that actors could perform their plays on the same stage all year round.  The theatre was so successful that soon other theatres, like the Fortune, the Swan and the Globe were built.


                                                                            *


In Her Spare Room

I see these books,
draw in a breath,
as cherished memories
race into my head.

There are:

Akenfield
Portrait of an English Village 
Swallows and Amazon
The Speckledy Hen
The Little flowers of St. Francis
My Friend Flicka
The Wind in the Willows
Tales of Old Inns


The owner of this house
is unknown to me,
but her collection
of treasured books
tells me a little of her,
what makes her who she is,
what makes me who I am.


                                                                          *

With very best wishes, Patricia







Sunday, 11 February 2018

Blue Gingham Dress

Dear Reader,




                                                                        Blue Gingham Dresses


When originally imported into Europe in the 17th century gingham was a striped fabric, but today it is distinguished by its chequered pattern.  From the mid-18th century, when it was being produced in the mills of Manchester,  it started to be woven into chequered or plaid pattern, often blue and white.  "Gingham" comes from the Malayan word 'genggang' or 'striped'.  The way we identify gingham, as being a contrasting check shirt, was not the way in which the fabric was originally known.  True gingham is distinguished primarily for being "dyed in the yarn" fabric, which means that the yarn is dyed before it is woven.
                                                                          *

D.H. Lawrence, 1919 (Derbyshire) February 9th

It is marvellous weather, brilliant sunshine on the snow, clear as summer, slightly golden sun, distance lit up.  But it is immensely cold- everything frozen solid - milk, mustard, everything.  Yesterday I went out for a real walk - I have had a cold and been in bed.  I climbed with my niece to the bare top of the hills.  Wonderful it is to see the foot-marks on the snow - beautiful ropes of rabbit prints, trailing away over the brows; heavy hare marks; a fox so sharp and dainty, going over the wall:  birds with two feet that hop; very splendid straight advance of a pheasant; wood-pigeons that are clumsy and move in flocks; splendid little leaping marks of weasels coming along like a necklace chain of berries; odd little filigree of the field-mice; the trail of a mole - it is astonishing what a world of wild creatures one feels about one, on the hills in snow.
                                  
                                                                            *

Blue Gingham Dress

She was wearing
a blue gingham dress
long sleeved, with lace collar,
one summer evening in July.

A sweet smell from lilies
lavender bushes
roses and orange blossom
drifted on the air,

the sea sapphire
played its own repetitive tune
soft and enticing,
and a southerly wind blew.

Suddenly he took her hand
drew her near
kissed her urgently,
then came the call

they broke in two
ran back to the house
her heart racing
knees weak, on fire.

The gingham dress
worn and faded now
hangs at the back of the cupboard,
but the kiss is still as fresh
as it was on that one
summer evening in July.

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 4 February 2018

Truth Modern


Dear Reader,
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    




                                                                                        Gannets



More bird stories.  In an attempt to attract a colony of gannets 80 fake birds were planted high up on the cliffs of Mana Island, New Zealand.  But a real gannet known as Nigel by the locals fell in love with one of the concrete replicas.  He build her a nest of sticks and showered her with attention for years.  But sadly Nigel's body has been found lying dead beside his concrete mate.   When Nigel arrived on the windswept island in the Tasman Sea in November 2015, he quickly became something of a local celebrity as the first gannet to roost there in more than forty years.  Gannets mate for life and when some real gannets were lured to the island Nigel shunned them.

                                                                            *


Truth Modern

Through a kaleidoscope's
shifting, bright colours,
set close to the eye,
the viewer's truth is reflected,
assuring the mind of its veracity,
acknowledging its fantasies
as realities,
seeing truth
not as it is, but as we would
like it to be
spinning words,
detaching truth from its moorings,
setting it loose in murky waters.
Illusions of truth
sandwiched between lies
is the authentic truth
of our times.

                                                                      
                                                                        
Very best wishes, Patricia