In the dark recesses of my mind I see this life’s predilection for evil

In the sunny side of my mind I see the appreciation of beauty

It is all in the balance, of good and evil

How to weight the scales in favour of good

How to balance the scales in a country that wants to criminalise the poor

Asking us to turn our backs on the persecuted who come knocking at our door

It’s time for us to stand up and say this isn’t done in my name, life doesn’t have to be this way

*“From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs”*

*The communist party manifesto*

Has the world gone stark staring mad?

Conflict I can understand, sectarian killing is just plain bad.

Eating an enemy goes way beyond, what is going on?

Is someone of another faith an enemy, what are they on?

We seem to live in a world where people are losing their reason.

In the affluent west we watch in horror at the daily list of atrocities.

Is there nothing that can be done? To help these desperate souls.

Whose image of life puts no boundaries in place to preserve civilisation.

We need to do more it’s not enough to send aid and soldiers.

We need to help peoples to rebuild the sense of community they have lost.

We march in with our high ideals and walk out leaving a disjointed society.

Sometimes it seems we make things worse and leave locals to count the cost.

As we done the protective armour that our work requires.

We shut ourselves off from a little bit of our own humanity.

It’s not possible to insulate ourselves from the impact of other people’s lives.

Some people do it for power over others a sick kind of vanity.

Some people have an evangelical bent, and think that they can change the world.

Some don’t really know why it’s just the way their life unfurled.

Some fall into it because they are square pegs in round holes.

Some are in it for the money they are misguided souls.

But all of them add something to the lives that they support.

A skill or an outlook a way off just being, there isn’t a prescription for the right sort.

It’s not about being clones individuality is better than being like the rest.

The people we support are as individual as the staff, and individuality is best.

We respect the right of people to be different that same right applies to all.

Care workers are people too and we don’t all come from the same mold.

Sunny morning gentle start to the day

Looking out on a softly shaded garden scene

The chairs round the table hold an image of where we have been

Now a perching place for the robin on his never ending quest for food

He is busy trying to feed himself today

He sings on the back of the chair, then hops down to look for crumbs from our table

The fish in the pond are lined up like soldiers on parade

Waiting for the food I throw them

These cold blooded creatures of habit

They see me approach and know they will be fed

As the morning wears on the garden gets warm

The local sparrows descend like a swarm

Into the shallow end of the pond by the waterfall

A refreshing cold bath for all

Then sit in the castor oil tree to dry, then as one they fly in a noisy chaotic flock

( Fred was my father George my uncle)

As Fred and his brother in-law George were finishing work on the farm George said “What you say to us going out tonight to that little field up Hinton corner. I’ve seen a lot of rabbits up there lately.” Fred said “Why not?  We may as well make a few bob and I can do with the money. There’s no moon tonight either.” They agreed to meet at eleven that night and net the field. As Fred arrived at Hinton corner he called out softly to George. George walked over and speaking in a whisper said that he thought the rabbits had had time to leave their warrens and spread out to feed in the field. With practiced ease Fred and George moved silently along the edge of the field pegging their fine meshed net. It was about three feet high and long enough to go from one side of the field to the other. They had placed it against the hedge where most of the warrens were.

They then walked out of the field and made their way to the opposite end of the field. They carried a long rope with them. They both took an end of the rope and walked to either side of the field letting the rope out between them. When they reached the corners of the field they started to walk towards the end with net, dragging the rope between them as they went.  The idea was to scare the rabbits into the net as they tried to reach the safety of their warrens. The only sound was the swish as the rope dragged over the field. During the whole procedure hardly a word was spoken and then only in a whisper. They knew the risks of being caught by the game keeper could be severe.

When they got to the ends of the net the procedure was to move towards the middle. Untangling the rabbits and despatching them as they went. They moved along in the blackness of the moonless night, becoming more concerned as they approached the middle of the net. When they met in the middle Fred said “I don’t know what the hell is going on here but I don’t like it.”  George said “I think we should get the gear together and get out of here fast.”  They went off to George’s cottage carrying all the gear and a sack of rabbits. When they got to safety they hid the rabbits and were much relieved to have not had their collars felt by the not so long arm of the law.

Next day Fred was working in the field when the local game keeper wandered over wearing a smug expression.” Hello Fred” he said smiling “you had a late night with George last night then.”  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I stayed in last night” Fred replied. “Oh did you hear about them rabbits up by Hinton corner?  Committed suicide I hear.” Later that day when Fred saw George he told him of the conversation with the gamekeeper. “You know what George?”  He said “that bloody gamekeeper took all them rabbits out of the net and killed them then left them laying neatly in a row. I think he was just having a joke on us the old bugger. And letting us know he’s about.”

Are we the only species on the planet that always wants to be somewhere else?

We carefully choose the location in which we will reside

We carefully decorate and upgrade our humble abode

We turn our gardens into an oasis of peace and tranquillity within a troubled world

And when we feel that we have sufficiently gilded the lily

That’s when we start to think maybe we should move

Are we nomadic by nature never content with what we have?

Perhaps we don’t have the wit to appreciate our surroundings

Were on a never ending quest to find nirvana

And when we think we’ve found it we will undoubtedly want to be somewhere else

I lived my life as if no one else existed

I lived a life of solipsism

I did as I wanted when I wanted

No reason for regret

A selfish little shit with no regard for parents or family

As I look back I can see what a bastard I could be

I lived my life with no regard for the feelings of others

I worked hard to earn my pay, and spent it with ease

Unfortunately I was the only one I pleased

From solipsism I have teased, I hope a near normal human being

In the cold of winters dusk with the snow blowing into his face

The old man looked into the darkness under the pier

With his old rheumy eyes, starring out of a weather beaten face

Thinking of how far he had fallen into his personal hell, just to end up here

In the space of fifteen years, to go from comfortable middle class

To contemplating finding a dry patch of sand under a pier

Getting thinner and sicker every year

Aging three years for every twelve months that pass

Next day as the kids are playing they find a bundle of rags

Rolling back and forth with each wave

The parents investigate and raise the alarm

Another anonymous homeless man no identification, another victim of poverty

Too proud to ask for help

Too sick to survive

Too desperate to make good choices

Too homeless to vote too poor for government to care

The summer sun was beating down as we walked to the harvest field.

Along a well-trodden path as a five year old I didn’t know what the day would yield.

The corn was being cut not by a combine harvester but by an old south binder.

Its speed was not fast it was not pulled by a horse but an old grey Massey Ferguson we were all able to walk behind it.

The farmer’s wife drove the tractor wearing a modest long skirt.

She was a god fearing woman who never spoke to the farmhands children perhaps to her we were dirt.

She rode along we walked picking up the sheaves and standing them in stookes.

This terminology may seem archaic but was every day to us country folk.

The stookes would stand until the sun had dried the corn as dry as it could be.

It would then be gathered up and trailered to the farmyard where the threshing machine would be.

On threshing day I remember a day of great excitement.

As the sheaves were being threshed the rats and mice would run without deportment.

They squeaked and squirmed and rushed to get away’ the farmers dogs stood by to kill.

And as Collies do they ran around and killed at will.

I stood and watched the ponderous machine clunking and clanking with a rhythmic sound.

I stood and took it in watched pulleys and belts’ chains and sprockets’ an interest in engineering had been found.

I loved that old south binder with it gentle mechanical sound.

It didn’t damage the corn just cut it and tied it into a sheave and dropped it on the ground.

It was part of the revolution that killed of the pastoral life.

It helped to make it hard for a farmhand to support his wife and kids.

I remember the first combine harvester working in the field’ it cut the corn threshed it and put the corn in a sack.

It was a breakthrough maybe it was what made my Dad decide to pack up and move to Essex where my dad embraced technology.

He drove a caterpillar tractor and did the work of three men on his own.

I still miss the well-trodden paths of Suffolk.

I enjoy hearing the soft and gentle accent of my cousins.

I laugh at the dry wit of my kin from where I was born.

When I drive up the A12 I always feel like I’m going home to walk a path well worn.