December Moon

A waxing gibbous moon;
egg shaped intermediate phase
of illumination; fifty percent;
the sun’s light more than half
its visible surface and growing
by the night till it is whole
and bright.

A time when people strive
to get their projects done
just as the moon strives
to become full; a symbol
of the final push and thus 
the hardest of this winter
month for some.

But strive we must, for just around
the corner there is light; just around
the corner the shortness of days turns
on a pin and we begin the slow climb
back to friends and kin; to time
outdoors; to drawn-out days of love,
sunshine, happiness and hope.

Alison Mott

Photograph - Opoterser, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons (see link here.)

In our session leading up to Christmas, several of the Church Mice Writers reported having had a difficult week one way or another.  Writing in the half-dark of a winter afternoon, their heads bowed on the zoom screen before me as they scribbled away, I suddenly wondered whether it was anything to do with the planets or the moon.  A quick Google told me the moon was in a gibbous phase and the above poem began to form from the facts I found out online.

Poetry in 1957

Poetry at my 1957 Secondary Modern school was a subject that was tacked onto an English lesson once a week. 

Our English master was determined that during each lesson, at least one classic English poem was to be taken down into our exercise books, to be read at leisure much later.  At each lesson poetry was, for most of us, just an exercise in speed writing and a compelled form of concentration.

The classroom was equipped with three small blackboards and the poem of the day appeared across all three from left to right, to the sound of squeaking chalk and that occasional curse when that chalk stick broke in half.  Should any student be unwise enough to be talking, the broken half of the chalk would fly in his direction and it usually found its mark.

When copying these pieces, the student had to be at least halfway down the second board by the time that the third board was finished.  To the challenging sounds of ‘Have you all got that?’ the opening lines of the selected bard’s work were energetically obliterated from the first board in a cloud of ‘room enveloping’ chalk dust, to make way for further enlightened verses.

On discovering my old exercise book recently, I was amazed to discover over two dozen of my hand written collection from the past.  Here are a few that I recite from memory:-

Abdul Ben Adam
A Psalm of life
Blow, blow thou winter wind
The Daffodils
The Tiger
Waterloo
England, My England
The Inchcape Rock
The Night Mail
The Traveller

I remember one afternoon the entire class were complaining about hand cramps and having to keep up with the writing chore.  Our master said, ‘one day you will be glad that you have learned these pieces.’  Little did I know then, how right he was!

David Taylor

Call that funny?

Being a ‘miserable old git’ these days
Means I don’t like what passes as humour.
For twenty years now I’ve found little that’s funny,
Comic writing seems only a rumour.

I also don’t like the language now used,
These were swear words when I was a lad.
Nor do I know why they need to be said
Is it just a contempor’y fad?

Ken Platt, Colin Crompton, Tom Lehrer, Ken Dodd
Were the comics who kept me amused.
As did Galton and Simpson, Flanders and Swann,
Today’s comics just leave me confused.

David Parkin

I have cheated on my spouse ...

Church Mice writers had the choice of two prompts this week - a story of cooking with 'corned beef' as a signature dish or the (fictional!) sentence starter 'I have cheated on my spouse - and it's not the first time.'  Some of us chose to combine the two!

“I do like a bit of corned beef,” Duncan said, biting into the thick slices of Hovis the aforementioned corned beef was encased in, an oozy splodge of peppery brown sauce squeezing onto his thumb as he did so. He licked it off with a breadcrumby tongue. Sally watched him in wonderment at his lack of basic table manners or hygiene - the thumb was still covered in engine grease -  but said nothing. Duncan seemed not to notice.

“She'll never make ‘em,” he sneered, waving the sandwiched-hand to the left as if his wife were standing beside him rather than back in her own kitchen some miles away. “If it weren't for you, Sal, I'd get nowt.”

“Not nowt, Duncan,” Sally said, wiping the Formica top clear of crumbs that had sprayed from his cement mixer of a mouth. “I thought you said she made you a snap box?”

“Snap box, I ask you!” Duncan guffawed, pebble-dashing the front of Sally's apron. “A few bloody salad leaves and a boiled egg! How's a chap to do a full day's work on bloody salad leaves and a boiled egg?”

“Healthier for you, though,” Sally smiled politely, glancing at Duncan's ample stomach as she turned away towards the counter. “And much fewer crumbs too,” she muttered wisely to herself.

 

Alison Mott

Twinkle, Twinkle - but not as we know it

A reworking of an old favourite for National Poetry Day 2021:

Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high
like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how I wonder what you are.

Racing light from shining star
bounces to us from afar;
bending through the layers of space,
twinkles to the human race.
Racing light from shining star
bounces to us from afar.

Alison Mott

A bench in the park during Autumn

What is so fascinating about a well-made bench? Truth be known, I probably rarely noticed them for the first two thirds of my life as I rushed by. Lately, however, it is a very welcome sight when out walking the dog and breath becomes short. As you inhale the fresh air you can read a book, sit in the sunshine, soak up the rays or shelter under a tree for some welcome cooling shade. Simply watching other people is a grand pastime, maybe exchange a greeting, or make small talk about the weather whilst marveling at the surroundings - this makes a bench a valuable social asset.

I particularly welcome a bench that contains a brass plate commemorating a life. My favourite bench is in the centre of Bradgate Park, way up high on a slope surrounded by crag and bracken. Though my favourite months are spring and summer, the bench is at its most splendid in autumn, when rust, red and golden tones frame it. There is a magnificent view of Old John, and a dry-stone wall shelters the bench from behind. Beyond the wall, the reservoir ripples as it mirrors the surrounding woodland, a feast for the eyes and the senses.

Anyone passing is introduced to a gentleman and his two dogs who once wandered the acres of open countryside. I ought to remember his name and that of his two Labradors, but no matter, I absorb the atmosphere and visualise the lively rambles relished by this trio.

My local park bench commemorates Sylvia, an old school friend. In recent years she had moved to the same village. Sixty years had passed since our childhood encounters. We spent time together walking our dogs on the park. She announced her devastating news on such a walk, she was suffering from terminal cancer. On dry days I can sit with her memory for a while. When it is raining, I simply call out “Hello Sylv,” as I pass by the wet seat. Damp trousers are not a good look at this age.

As summer fades, the leaves are starting to litter the ground. They are pale and insipid shades of green and yellow and have yet to take on the brilliant pallet of Autumn.

It will soon be time to collect conkers. My sister believes that they keep spiders away from the house. A fresh crop is collected each year. The lower branches of the horse chestnut tree have already been stripped by children, the tree branches showing signs of missile attacks from wooden and steel bars aimed to dislodge the spikey nuts.  I will await the larger ones high up in the tree that will be blown off on a gusting windy day when very few people are out.

Bird boxes are another nice way to be remembered. Sheet Hedges Wood in Groby has many of these boxes, each a tribute to someone’s life. In spring, one can find a host of bird species collecting nesting materials to raise a brood. What better way to be remembered, than playing host to a family of chicks? 

Do not bother with a gravestone for me, just pick a nice spot for people to take in the living views for a while and possibly glance my name.

Carolyn Wheatley

Shopping 2021-style

In my opinion, Loughborough has become a useless dump as far as shopping is concerned.

All I wanted was a small bedside lamp, to replace the one that I had recently broken.

Unable to find fuel for my car without sitting for an hour in a queue on Epinal Way, I decided to take a bus into town.

I tried to find a suitable lamp in Wilko’s, but they only had tall flimsy looking things and nothing suitable for my bedside location.

I went looking for the Argos store, only to discover that the building was now abandoned and empty.  An old friend happened to be passing by, and she was kind enough to advise me that I had to make my way up the Ashby Road, where a much smaller version of Argos could be found in Sainsbury’s.

On balance I decided against the walk.

I stood and looked at the town wondering where else I might try, and could I pick up a couple of other items that I needed?  Well, if I had needed a haircut or a coffee, no problem, but that is just about all, unless you include estate agents, bookmakers and funeral directors!

I decided to go home, and waited in a growing queue for the No 11 bus from Swan Street.  After about ten minutes it turned up, shedding first its few passengers and then its driver.

The driver announced to all those waiting “It’s now out of service, no driver replacement available, sorry.” He returned to his seat and drove away.  That now left the No 12 as my next option, and another ten-minute wait.

Eventually the 12 arrived and most of us embarked to the sound of another driver moaning that he was fed up with everything and today would probably be his final turn as a bus driver.

I am reviewing my need for a bedside light and am considering the use of a candle (circa 1750).  I think that this might well befit a town that is rapidly returning to that era of time.

 

David Taylor