Sitting with a cup of tea a cigarette and the morning paper

Reading the personal stories of survivors of the bombings

As I read I find the newsprint has blurred

I remove my glasses to see if they need cleaning

They do not! I wipe the tears from my eyes and continue

I’m sure I am not the only one that shed a tear for the innocent today

For the world our daily survival is being controlled by a vicious mob

Trying to enslave use with the chains of fear

The nice old man walked from one room to the next then back again

Carrying a book he would sit for a minute then get up and walk again

He had years in the care home wandering from room to room

On a never ending search for contentment that could never be found

I told him of a book I had read, and gave it to him

He thanked me kindly and said he would give it a try

He carried it from room to room in favour of his previous one

Weeks later I asked, how is the book? He sadly replied I can no longer read as I cannot remember the previous page

As the weeks went by he stopped carrying books from room to room

He would tell me of his life and his departed wife, long term memory intact

A gentle dignified man brought low by short term memory failure

Every day when I asked him how he was he would reply I don’t know, I don’t know why I’m still here I don’t want to be here anymore

One day he got his wish I went in and he wasn’t there

Hopefully he found the peace and contentment he searched for, for so long

As the summer days get shorter

Autumn’s presence slowly gets stronger

The leaves begin to fall on my green and well-kept lawn

The blackberries in the hedgerows swell and burst within my mouth

A taste that takes me back to my unfettered childhood

Back to a time when almost everything was good

Back to a time when body and mind were strong

When my judgement may have been wrong, but I believed I could right all wrongs

I would share my dad’s collected field mushrooms fried on Sunday mornings

Then be sick, just too rich cooked in butter they made me ill

Next Sunday I would eat them again same result some enjoyment then I was ill

I must have been a persistent little bastard, I still love mushrooms they no longer make me ill

Walking into the kitchen and the smell of raspberry jam being made

Mum made gooseberry, blackberry, strawberry and blackcurrant

All of these smells remind me of an untroubled childhood

Come on autumn bring your harvest to mind, even the smell of my dad’s pickled shallots is a memory sublime

Our lounge smelled of apples from our orchard

Brown skinned russets no fancy pink ladies

The plums we ate as they became ripe, damsons and a yellow one I can’t remember its name

Potatoes and onions from veg plot with rabbit my dad shot

Herrings from my uncle crown, caught with his own gnarled hands and nets

I remember all this as the autumn mists descend like an old lost friend

Sadly it is true

On the salt marsh the wading birds are tweeting in the dark

As the mist rolls in from the sea and up the creek it is creeping

Engulfing all before it in its cold grey grip

It moves slowly over the water and crawls across the marshes

The temperature drops as if the dead have cast off their shackles

The dogs in their kennels shiver and raise their hackles

Silence descends on the land as it slips into its cold grey grip

It seeps into gardens and under ill-fitting doors

It puts its droplets on the trees and grasses

And when it freezes the landscape will be covered in ice jewels

They glitter in the new days sun

The mist that makes folk fearful has left a gift to be enjoyed

Mum Dad I have something to tell you

No I’m not gay and I haven’t lost my job

I ere were going to have a baby

A glazed stare mouth open as if to speak

What how when, you know what and how but not when

Why the embarrassed conversation between parent and child

Why the embarrassment at the start of this conversation

Is it the confirmation of the act conception?

Or is it the concept of your child as parent

The image of grandparent flashes through your mind

You in a cardigan smelling of cigarettes and lavender

Your grandchild smelling of Johnson’s and sick

The weeks go by starting with morning sickness

Then that pregnancy glow of wellbeing

Turning into enormity and wanting it to be over

On the day the baby chooses it bursts out into the world

Thank god it won’t remember the carnage it has caused

The stretch marks the tears and tears

Out into the world believing it is god

A blessing to its family to be worshiped from above

Now the family has to teach this god that they are a lesser deity

As the sun sets on today we look to tomorrow and lockdown again

Restrictions on our lives no meeting with friends no lunches out

Work and home, walking the dogs,gardening when the rain stops

At least it is only for a month we hope then we will be let out again

We need a vaccine soon or we will all be stark staring mad

Lets hope it saves lots of lives

Don’t let me die in trainers or in a hospital gown.
Let me die with dignity my last written word shouldn’t be a disclaimer.
Let me die chasing a gang of bank robbers or holding a mugger down.
Maybe even jiving to the proclaimers.

I can’t walk five hundred miles I’ve got arthritis in my toe.
I could drive five hundred miles but that would be the Faeroes.
I want to go with a bang but I won’t be a suicide bomber.
Ending up with a hundred virgins what a bummer.

I would rather have Brenda the dogs the beach hut and endless summer.
Hang on a minute I would miss the autumn mists.
And the winter haw frosts in the sun.
Oh sod it I’ll hang on there’s lots I haven’t done.