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Still Waters

Rising Brook Writers

DISCLAIMER: To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is in the public domain or has been reproduced with permission and/or source acknowledgement. We have researched the rights where possible. RBW is a community organisation, whose

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SPECIAL THANKS: Staffordshire County Council’s Your Library Team at Rising Brook Branch

PUBLISHED BY: Rising Brook Writers

RBW is a voluntary charitable trust. RCN: 1117227 © Rising Brook Writers 2011 The right of Rising Brook Writers to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

This anthology is dedicated to Rising Brook Writers’ co-founder

Stephanie Spiers, inspiring author, poet, playwright and mentor.

First Edition ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

£5-00

Donation appreciated

NOT FOR RESALE

Still Waters

3

is the fifth annual collection of poetry pro-

duced by Rising Brook Writers‘ library and

online workshop contributors.

As well as publishing poetry, Rising Brook Writers

participate in a number of live performances each

year. Poetry readings are an established feature of

the annual Open Day at Stafford Gatehouse, held as

part of the Stafford Festival Fringe. Each October,

contributors also celebrate National Poetry Day with

a poetry session.

Rising Brook Writers poetry performers also network

with other West Midland groups, schools and chari-

ties such as the Stafford Sports College, Oxfam

Bookfest, City Voices in Stoke-on-Trent, Drayton Writ-

ers in Market Drayton and Stafford‘s Quest Day Cen-

tre, and have appeared in performance events held at

The Leopard, Burslem; The Stafford Court Hotel, Market

Drayton; Littleworth Community Centre, and St Chad‘s

Community Room, Stafford.

The team at Rising Brook Writers are very grateful to

Stafford District Arts Council for supporting this project.


4

Contributing Poets

Alice Schofield 5

Anna Evans 8

Anne Picken 11

Countryman (Fred Waterfall) 14

Edith Holland 16

Elizabeth Leaper 19

Elizabeth Whitehouse 22

Isabel Gillard 25

James Anthony 28

Jane Moreton 30

John Price 33

Joy Tilley 36

Mel Booker 38

Nick Le Mesurier 39

Pauline Walden 41

Penny Wheat 44

Peter Branson 47

Peter Shilston 50

Phil Emery 52

Stella Dollin 54

Stephanie Spiers 57

Stephen Harvey 60

Sue Brown 63

Sue Cantrill 66

Still Waters

5

Anticipation

The date is set, the hall is booked ...

So many things to do,

Anniversary, birthday or wedding

Each one means so much to you.

The flowers, the cars, invitations …

Who‘s going to make the cake?

And what about the dresses?

So many lists to make.

You just can‘t invite Auntie Mabel;

Last time she was sick in her hat.

Uncle George is also a no-no;

He threw trifle all over the cat.

Red letter days are special and few,

Each deserving a celebration.

But whatever the thrill on the day itself,

It can‘t beat the anticipation.

Alice Schofield


6

Alice Schofield

Silence Implies Sound

So, silence implies sound.

Is that what you‘d have me believe?

But if you don‘t speak or communicate,

Then how are we going to relieve

This tension that‘s grown between us,

That is tearing us apart?

For God‘s sake, please say something.

Just tell me what‘s in your heart.

Silence implies sound, you say.

I suppose I‘d have to agree.

This quietness is deafening

And it‘s certainly battering me.

What has happened to you, Richard?

You always used to be so wise.

Please turn round and look at me.

I want to see into your eyes.

Ah, yes, I see it all now.

The sparkle has gone;

The love that shone there has died.

You no longer need words to tell me,

I can tell that you must have cried.

Did you weep alone quite quietly

Or did your sobbing shake the ground?

Now I understand your message;

Sadly, silence implies sound.

Still Waters

7

Alice Schofield

Here We Go Again

Well, once again it‘s over

And we celebrate Twelfth Night.

Down with the decorations

And every twinkling light.

The ceramic Father Christmas

And nativity scene are boxed,

We‘ve carefully wrapped the fairy,

And folded up the socks.

We‘ve sorted through the Christmas cards,

Some addresses we‘ve amended.

We‘ve savoured happy memories

Of friendships that have ended.

So, once again it‘s back to work;

The daily grind has started.

We need to keep our spirits up

And mustn‘t get downhearted.

For we have to mount the treadmill,

Get our lives back into gear.

We‘ve lists to write and cakes to make.

Well, next Christmas will soon be here.


8

Anna Evans

Stingers

The bees are disappearing.

In England beekeeping is at risk

of replacing the national pastime.

Meanwhile, what some Americans call bees

are often wasps, a waste

of language sharp as a bee sting —

so keen it can only be perfect once.

I was stung by a wasp as a child,

stuck at the top of a corkscrew slide

behind a boy too scared to go down.

His screams paralyzed my screams.

Sometimes the thing you can see

that's wrong, is not what's most wrong.

Why do we call wasps bees?

Because color is dangerously

over-important to the species

homo sapiens. Seeing the same stripes

we miss the slender waist, the sleekness —

wasps and bees are only of the same

order, Hymenoptera. My elbow,

when I finally reached the ground,

Still Waters

9

Anna Evans

had swollen to the exact size of a baseball,

a sport I knew nothing of then.

Nor could I have defined "allergic."

Despite zero bee stings

and the puzzling absence of bees,

I always feared wasps and bees equally,

wrongly. Bees are not predators.

Wasps are fitter for this imprecise world

from which gentleness fades, unnoticed.

Cannock Chase, England 2004

Old elms beckon on a hump-backed hill.

The air is still, then flutters like the breath

of one near death. Above a blush of blooms

the woodsman looms. The chainsaw which he frees

will raze the trees, and mill their bones to dust,

their blood to rust. One blade, one final reckoning.


10

Anna Evans

Accent In Rugeley's schoolyard scuffles North and South

mimicked the Mason-Dixon line. Each word

of mine raised up a Southern flag; my mouth

pronounced my childhood‘s sentence. Undeterred,

I cherished those long vowels, the consonants

in their clipped uniforms, a loyal crew

whose service had once earned me compliments

and them my bond, no matter where I flew.

Beyond concern now: oceans, years and miles

divide me from that Midlands mining town;

I sound as if I‘m from the British Isles,

which spot precisely, not worth pinning down.

My accent — passport, baggage, hard won waters —

simply an heirloom I can‘t will my daughters.

Still Waters

11

Stables Market, Camden They have tried to make homes for the ghosts,

those weary nags chafed at shoulder and haunch,

castings of bronze, with farriers tending

and myriad horses leaping an arch ―

of heaven?

The ghosts won‘t inhabit the statues,

baulk at the smoothness, the neatness, perfection.

They‘re just objects displayed for the tourist

like the rainbow splashed tunics, the man-high gilt mirrors

and badges.

But the cobbles whisper their names

Joey and Dobbin, Amber and Ash,

trailing lame foot, ripped tendon, gashed belly

slumped in the straw, dull eyed and poulticed.

Recovering.

Anne Picken


12

Anne Picken

Piano Concerto No 2 Rachmaninov This music is not yours.

―I‘ve been deprived, haven‘t I?‖ you smiled,

vaguely.

We searched, we ordered it too late.

Yet ominous the piano creeps …

invades …

swells …

rampages …

roars victory…

and then it pauses,

struck by the strength of friendship.

It feels clear air and meadows calm with sheep,

remembers ferny, mushroom woods ―

you in Jane‘s cape,

green tea-cup caravan mornings ―

you singing with the kettle,

sees Powys Castle car park ―

empty. (We‘d got it wrong. Again.)

It walks the path to Welshpool, hears laughter in a café.

We laughed so much, the three of us, revelled in laughing,

revelled in each other, linked supporting arms.

Still Waters

13

This is not your music,

yet it recalls your strength, your quiet courage,

coping, carrying on;

your self-effacement, underlying qualms,

your love of children, music, gardens, books.

This music is not yours, but knows the sureness

of your triumphant life,

and makes you stay.


14

You Know Ya Gettin Old You know ya gettin old, when ya toe nails cannot reach,

And you conna pull ya socks on, feet no longer look a peach.

Boot laces just the same, an extra push to bend down low,

N‘ take ya time in gettin up, om not sa young ya know.

Me partin‘s gettin wider and can see right through me hair,

It‘s gone all grey and silver, just like an old grey mare.

The rain it splashes on me head, a hat it is a must;

Stop it runnin down me neck, n‘ keep it off me crust.

Memory now is not sa good, to find things is a pain.

Names and places I dun know, gone reet out me brain;

What we had for dinner and tea, now what was that again?

And in a great big car park, twelve cars like mine the same.

Countryman

Reactions getting slow, and it‘s the car that takes the brunt;

Opening the door too close, it‘s the paint to bricks affront.

A dent or two I dunna mind, as out the drive I swing,

N‘ backin round the corner, n‘ scrawp the rear wing.

Om writing this while I can, on lookin back on life.

Me mind is gettin slower, n‘ conna cope with all the strife.

So I‘ll get it all in order, things remembered years ago,

Will not be able to do it, when I‘m planted down below.

Still Waters

15

There's a Mouse in the House (or More)

We often get winter visitors; they come in from the cold,

They find a little hole or two, and squeeze through being bold,

Then look for food and hide away, they come into our house.

Who can blame them. I'd do the same, that crafty little

mouse.

Can hear them chewing under the floor, middle of the night,

The very board bed stands on, a hole right through —

not quite,

And running along the water pipes, so warm to their little feet,

Nesting in the airing cupboard, in kitchen find crumbs to eat.

You're lucky if you see one, ya can see where they have been,

Chewing at the cornflake box, for food they're real keen,

Whole family of them hiding, wait for us to go to bed,

Then rummage round, find some food, attack the loaf of

bread.

The cat he knows where they are, but he's old and doesn't

care,

Our dog she sniffs and finds them, hiding under the stairs,

Barks and make a real loud noise, but come out they will not,

So all the livestock live together, I think we've lost the plot.

Countryman


16

Edith Holland

Hero of the Woodland

By chance the acorn fell an untrod way,

covered soon by autumn leaves;

Not hidden, buried by a busy jay but then to grow

among the other trees.

Kings and princes rode beneath his boughs;

The baying dogs and taranta echoed across the sward,

smooth and green untouched by ploughs,

deer and soft eyed does scattered as they heard.

He saw his neighbours felled for royal timbers;

Still he stood with pride through year on year,

felt the joy and thrill of the young climbers

hiding among his branches without fear.

Now, ancient, gnarled and hollowed like a cave,

Waiting sadly, what's to be his end?

Tree-ringed, labelled, numbered with the brave,

Fenced round and cared for by a friend.

Still Waters

17

Sequel to the Village Show The village show is over: all the people gone, marquees

standing silent, empty and forlorn,

Echoing the rustles of rising wind and storm;

The day has seen great moments of elation and delight.

Smiling winners clutching trophies, glad they got it right;

Unlucky loser; downcast Dad his carrots had a blight.

Happy Grandad, again a winner taking back the shield;

Weary Mum, her scones and bread praised and judged

by feel;

Tired children, dragging footsteps home across the field.

Was judging fair, a quiet remark by one not satisfied;

Tomatoes let him down again, no matter how he tried

Next door always seemed to win, luck was on his side.

Up the road the sunflower goes tallest in the show.

Grandma will be proud of him she had shown him how

to stake it safely in its pot, ready for the show.

Show committee chairman, flushed with their success

Calls the next meeting, can't waste time to rest.

Next year‘s show will soon come round.

Let's give it our best.

Edith Holland


18

Edith Holland

Leaning

Lean on the gate to take in the view of the river valley

and the hills beyond.

Watch for the first swallows arriving as they dip

to pick off insects from the water,

skimming away and returning in a loop.

Lean by the willow trees edging the pool.

Soon dragonfly nymphs will be climbing the reeds

to transform into brilliant gauzy wings and a short

hectic life.

Lean from the window on a still, black night.

Marvel at the million twinkling stars

going on forever like crushed diamonds.

Lean over the cot, gently smooth the covers,

turn out the light:

one more day over.

Still Waters

19

The Old Songs

Where are the old songs now,

where are they?

Gone, long gone are the singers of songs.

Who will sing of the salmon

that leaps in the clear waters?

Who will sing of the hawk on the wing?

Who will remember the heroes of old

And sing to us of their great deeds?

In the dark days of our being

our souls cry out to the four winds,

yearn for the songs of our dreaming.

Yet the singers are with us no more,

the songs have faded to whispers and echoes

that drift away on the river of time.

Who will sing the old songs now,

who will sing them?

Elizabeth Leaper


20

Elizabeth Leaper

The Mermaid’s Lost Love

The mermaid sat on the high granite rock

Combing her long golden hair

And sighed as she thought of her long-lost love –

A man who breathed in the air.

As she combed she keened a mournful lament

For a love that just couldn‘t be,

As she couldn‘t stay for too long in the air

And he couldn‘t live in the sea.

She would sit on this rock at the height of the tide

And wait till it ebbed away,

Then he would climb up to sit alongside,

But both knew that they could not stay.

The last time they met he had lifted her down

And carried her back to the shore.

They swam out together to the edge of the deep,

Then he‘d had to leave her once more.

She watched him swim back to the beach

through the surf,

Then he turned and waved her farewell

And she knew that she‘d never see him again.

Her heart broke as the salty tears fell.

Still Waters

21

Elizabeth Leaper

Now she returned to the rock once a year,

Hoping he‘d be by the shore.

But he would have died many long years ago,

Yet she would still live many more.

So she sat up there on the high granite rock

Combing her long golden hair

And mourned for the loss of her one true love –

A man who breathed in the air.

The Breeze

As the breeze passes by

she suppresses a giggle,

her long fingers tickle

the birch and the beech leaves,

that wriggle and jiggle

and dance with the breeze.


22

Treasure I saw the sea was boundless, I saw no friendly shore;

The sky was cold and heavy, my love was no more;

The stars, the treasure of the sky, had the nerve to glow

While my heart was broken, how could they glitter so?

The treasure of my life had gone, darkness now invades;

Deep waters, sharp and silver, close my loves sweet eyes;

My tears so warm, reach down deep into the green shade.

Will they reach my love? Will he know why they were made?

My love, my endless love, now the treasure of the sea.

Oh, you that drowned in love do not forget, remember me.

I will see your face forever, in my dreams and distant stars.

Mighty deep, heed my plea, rock him gently in your arms.

Elizabeth Whitehouse

Still Waters

23


The Longest Day The morning gathers its soft beams of early light,

Making ready to soften the nearing clear blue sky.

A mist is created from the last remains of night;

It helps to make gentle the light seeking my eyes.

The sun now replaces the quietness of the dewy dawn,

Pushing its rays into flickering crimson searching rings.

Nature is woken, a trumpet of colour heralds the morn;

Bees are hovering on glinting, fast translucent wings.

The wind has responded, brushing over trees and fields;

Afternoon shadows give respite to the glorious sun‘s haze;

Daisies bow their sun-kissed heads to the warmth

that yields;

Roses in riotous bloom donate their scent to the breeze.

The hush of the evening beckons the sweetness of night;

Birds sing soft silver songs as the sun moves to its amen;

The nights heavy darkness protects all the day‘s delights

As the longest day ends, tomorrow's dawn will begin again.


24


Life is a Circus Life is a circus, with its never ending, perpetual ring

Of changing scenes, memories that fade then let go

We look to the show of hope that pleasure can bring

The trapeze swinging in changes, to and fro, to and fro

The clowns, the laughter, hidden behind a sullen mask

Into the circle of life's reality, falling, they bruise, tumble

The lion hearted win, the weak shouting, are taken to task

In spangled costumes of splendid dress, hidden, humble

Children laugh gazing in wonder, the circus stars of life

The crowd cheers the horses, round and round they go

The circle now filled with sawdust of floating troubled strife

Enter the master cracking his whip, the end of life's show

Still Waters

25

Isabel Gillard

Burning Paper Leaves

Her bygone Christmasses

now rustle in my hands.

These gaudy wrappings

saved for a rainy day

are dry as leaves all spent

in still September air.

The need to spare

our overburdened store of memory requires

this vandalism, this jettison of fires.

These hands that do not seem my hands

perform the task,

grubby and tinselled from the dusty past;

set match to paper, wait as the orange flare,

edged with a luminous green, catches the square

sheet of infinite twinkling eyes and snowy beards.

He‘s rising to heaven now in peals of bells

of gold and emerald crisping to cinder black.

A scarlet candle gleams briefly before it burns

in greater flame. A robin sings,

its breast on fire, and robin to candle clings

as they rise in the silent air

and drift, on a slow sigh,

towards the apple tree

as gentle and as tremulous as prayer.


26

Isabel Gillard

Bonds

From troubles of the world I turn to any small

creature near me ― any one at all.

The pollen-drunken bee that spreads its wings

and tumbles off the rockery, our cat,

who wriggles on the carpet for applause

and, for the proper audience, goes on without

a pause.

Black-and-white Albion, who clearly thought

that owls were angels and could not be got

to move an inch from the old apple tree

while owl-cat cherubs chirruped joyfully.

Then tortoise Jackie, bent on burrowing

into an open fire, we found quite worrying.

Our climate was too tepid for his taste.

We often had to catch him round the waist

with tongs and cool him down beneath the tap.

Our budgie, Alex, did a gender swap

and laid an egg to everyone's surprise,

morphing into Mary, immaculate and wise.

Still Waters

27

Black mongrel, Kerry, fancied dressing up;

paws high, in sweaters, he was quite a sight.

His buddy, Puss-in-Boots, loved rides in prams,

but came home, shattered, many a roof-top night

using the door-knocker, stretched to his full height.

Horatio, our one-eyed hunter of small things.

Hissy, the keen philosopher, who was kind.

beloved, peaceful Bess and big bad Ben,

they are not old, sad gravestones in my mind,

(although the garden's littered with farewells)

but joyful circus acts, pictures that bind.

And shall we be remembered in our turn

as Gods and Goddesses - or Grock, the clown;

that little soul, who functioned when they prodded,

the strong, wise man, who never let them down?


28

Games

Hop one, hop two, step three four

Miss the lines, pick the stone

Back to the start for more

Jump in jump out, miss the rope

Duck your head, turn around

Hope that your legs can cope

Hold the whip, spin the top

whip again and again

be sure it doesn't stop

Squidge the wink, make the tiddle

take turns around and around

It can be quite a fiddle

Press the button, watch the screen

destroy the alien hoards

Shapes the life of a teen

Sit at home, be alone

in a digital world

My how the parents moan

James Anthony

Still Waters

29

James Anthony

P.E.

I dread the day each week

excuses I aim to seek

What can I say today

I want to walk away

I tried the note from Mom

I don't think I fooled anyone

I know, I'll forget my kit

They're only trying to make me fit

It just doesn't interest me

running over to that tree

Run back again, be first

I'm last, so I'm cursed

Kick the ball around the field

Tackle him, don't yield

We're not all made the same

are my parents to blame?

P.E. and Games my biggest hate

Oh dear, now I'm going to be late!


30

Masterclass

The keyboard‘s black and white,

and so‘s the score; I see they are the same

for everyone; as are the markings,

rallentando, maybe, or con fuoco.

Yet, as each player sits, I have

the feeling that they see it differently.

All this black and white ― score, notes ―

can be translated, with fingers, posture,

flick of the hair, into mud or magic.

The audience applauds, and now

the Maestro intervenes, comments

on things I cannot fathom ― tempi, syncopation;

he distinguishes

reminiscence and remembering.

Using the same sets of notes,

in one short example

there is a luminescence

not audible before.

Jane Moreton

Still Waters

31

Jane Moreton

Amah

They spoke of you as Amah, only so;

your successor has her name

below the photograph.

She does not hold me

in cradling arms as you do ―

but I was bigger then.

You cradle me, but I cannot recall

your smell, your voice, the feel of you ―

all I know is that war divided us

while I was still small.

How, tell me how

did I lose you?


32

Jane Moreton

Church Tea Bar

‗What‘s those lights through there?‘

he asked, turning in his chair, gesturing

with the spoon that just stirred heaps

of sugar in his tea, to where

flickering votives gleamed

through the glass screen,

lighting prayers and hopes to heaven.

‗Candles‘, I said, ‗that people lit for someone,

like a prayer, or to remember them.‘

Silent, I think we both recalled his wife,

a fortnight in her grave,

flowers bunched, renewed for her

each day. He gazed at me, perhaps

remembering her smile? then rose,

fished for his pennies, went through

the screen, waited a moment there,

left his candle glimmering.

A smile; he returned to his seat,

sat down, finished his tea,

left to meet friends in the chip shop.

Still Waters

33

John Price

Lily and Me

We sat down to watch the swimming,

My grand-daughter, Lily, and me:

The Commonwealth ladies relay,

The four by two hundred, heat three.

We talked about what would happen,

My grand-daughter, Lily, and me:

How each lady would swim in turn

And the change-overs that we‘d see.

We jumped as the gun was fired,

My grand-daughter, Lily, and me

And Lily counted out each length

With an excited ‗One, two, three.‘

We watched at the end of length four,

My grand-daughter, Lily, and me.

‗What happens now, Lily?‘ I asked,

‗Oh, she‘ll just bang her head, you see.‘


34

John Price

Adoption

Sally Shaw, who lives next door,

said she‘d adopted a cat.

The cat called for lunch and tea every day

and scratched on the door each morning at four

to see who was coming to play.

Terry Shaw, who lives next door,

said he‘d put a stop to that.

His plan was to ambush the cat slyly,

tie it in a sack and drive it right back

to a distant place like Filey.

Sally Shaw, watching next door,

saw Terry stalking the cat,

who just walked round the house without caring.

Its tail Terry snatched, his face the cat scratched

then left leaving Terry swearing.

Still Waters

35

Terry Shaw, aged sixty-four,

said he‘d adopt a granny.

He‘d visit for lunch and tea at weekend,

take her to a show and Monday‘s bingo

and just be her very best friend.

Sally Shaw, aged sixty-four,

was happy until she heard

a friend say the granny was thirty-nine,

Rather curvaceous and quite flirtatious;

‗No friend for a husband of mine!‘

Sally Shaw, dashing next door,

Said she‘d put a stop to that.

She raced through the house to the shed outback.

‗Damn granny,‘ she cried to Terry, wide-eyed.

‗Where the hell did you put that sack?‘


36

Pigeon

Pity me, town pigeon,

Raiding the rubbish,

Living on leftovers,

Risking the rats,

Huddling at night

On a supermarket roof.

My iridescent purple-green neck

Should match cliff-top heathers

And viper‘s bugloss, as did

My wild stock-doves forebears‘.

My eyes should watch for

The stooping peregrine,

Not boot of youth,

Nor darting child.

In my dreams I see

Wave-pounded granite,

Not concrete cliffs, nor

Bright glass-sided canyon.

And is not, human,

Your history the same?

Joy Tilley

Still Waters

37

Joy Tilley

May

May, month of moods,

Teenager of the Year,

Girl who would be thought a woman,

Smile on us.

Bring out your tulips,

Which arise, Venus-like,

On naked stalks

From a froth of forget-me-nots.

But instead, we receive a regression

To a childhood tantrum,

A pout, a footstamp of thunder,

Eyes flashing lightning.

The temper of the year

Has changed.


38

Mel Booker

As It Was in the Beginning

Where did the world begin?

Who has the storybook?

The words, the tales, the fantasies

Share with me, I‘d love a look.

I‘m not so certain I‘d believe

Some proof I think I‘d need

When people talk reality

It‘s all that they perceive!

But what is yours will not be mine

It‘s in the eyes of each

What things I see the things I hear

They may be out of reach.

Could you perceive what I can see

Or would you say I lie?

I could not say yours was not true

Who am I to deny, that

What you see is who you are

Your thoughts belong to you

So back we go right to the start

Where did the world begin?

Who has the truth? Does it exist?

Or does it lie within??????

Still Waters

39

Nick Le Mesurier

Approaching Midsummer's Eve

We are drawn towards these hours ―

It‘s like the tides

Irresistible

This rise

Towards the midnight sun.

Soon we must return

But for now

Let us rehearse

Our rude nocturnal dance.

Tonight

We will prepare

To ask the stars

For blessing.


40

Don‘t send me flowers when I‘m dead.

Don‘t say then

The things you wished you‘d said,

Those things that at the time

Would have been far more kind

Than what you chose to say.

When you lay me in my final bed

Remember me for what I had hoped to be

And not for what you made of me.

Nick Le Mesurier

Still Waters

41

Two Poems from This Country Life

I Sheep stray ― as is their way ―

And who gets the blame? It‘s always the same;

The twitcher, the walker, the man with his dog;

The rambler, the stalker, those out for a jog.

But why should this be? It‘s quite plain to see;

The reason‘s innate in that thing called a gate:

Heavy ones, flimsy ones, some with a list;

Creaky one, rusty ones, those you can‘t shift;

Chains and latches, hooks with their catches

positioned too high ―

Or not there at all, just a hole in the wall for a bolt

that‘s too short ―

So you struggle and pant, then driven to rant

You decide to abandon respect for the ‗code‘ and

take to the road!

Pauline Walden


42

Pauline Walden

II The time has come to leave this countryside I love;

The wagtail bobbing on the gravel path,

Watchful, busy; hops onto the mirror of my car,

His greeting dribbling down the mirrored glass.

The ice clad roof where sits the gentle, snow white dove,

Pink-footed on the sagging ridge,

Warm against the chimney breast.

Nuthatch, blue tit, sparrow, robin, finch,

All clustered on the food-packed bench.

While overhead the buzzard hovers for his prey,

The wide-spanned kite hangs motionless in mock delay,

Then down he swoops and up, up and away.

And all the while the neighbour‘s cat

Drowses on the windowsill.

Sleek and nurtured, watchful, still.

Not for him the frosty chase;

He‘s too well settled in his place.

Nature may be red in tooth and claw,

As Milton grooms another paw,

But not for him, today at least;

Spring will yield an easier feast!

All this, and more, I‘ll leave behind,

Sad, but with an easy mind.

Just flip the coin and see the other side

What did this city-dweller know

Of country life?

Was it really an escape from graft and strife?

Still Waters

43

Oh! No indeed, a mere exchange,

So be aware,

Both graft and strife,

Beneath a different cloak, are here.

Limping, bleating sheep waiting to be herded

To a place where no-one cares.

Shattered, glorious birds, their plumage dulled

By salivating mouths and mud.

The faithful dog

That may not make the grade,

A failed commodity,

Unloved in this, the country trade.

The hunt turned out in force,

Slobbering for a kill denied by law.

But oh! There‘s hope, by chance to catch a natural scent!

What then? With dogs and horsemen in full pelt

Smelling blood;

There‘s still the chance to catch a fox and tear it limb

from limb

And glory in the carnage, blood another youngster,

Welcome to the clan!


44

Dead Leaves

A pile of leaves lies dormant in the road;

Wrinkled, crinkled like dry old leather,

Brown and brittle, cast off by branches

Brazen in their nakedness.

A sudden gust of wind catches them

And spurs them into life,

Stirring them round like tea in a cup,

Sending them curling, swirling, whirling,

Hurrying , worrying, scurrying,

Lifting and drifting,

Snatching and catching,

Dancing and prancing,

Eddying in the wind‘s whirlpool.

Disturbed into restless agitation

They go tumbling and spinning

Like a young dog chasing its tail.

Whisked into perturbed animation,

Pirouetting, fretting, coquetting.

Then, as suddenly as they were caught up,

They are tossed aside, discarded.

Forgotten, as the wind moves on

To newer, more exciting toys.

No longer goaded, they relax again,

So settling back into their former stupor.

Penny Wheat

Still Waters

45

Wind

On a wild day in November

A rough wind growled in anger.

Bedroom curtains danced and trembled,

Almost imperceptibly stirred by a rogue draught

Which had sneaked through gaps

In an ill-fitting frame.

A final flurry of the last year‘s leaves,

Buffeted from bent branches,

Scurried along in the gutter.

Chimney pots moaned,

As though some deep-pitched horn had sounded

Miles away.

Or a mermaid on some foreign shore

Had blown a giant conch.

An eerie note; hollow and haunting.

The wind tugged at the roots of trees,

Lifted skirts above girls‘ knees,

And pushed aside obstacles in its path.

Rushing and roaring;

Bowling and cartwheeling

A paper carton down the street.

Nearly knocking me off my feet.

Making it hard to catch my breath.

Frantic and febrile, it snatched at washing

Smacking on a line.

Penny Wheat


46

Rain at Night

The rain woke me; tiptoeing over the tiles.

Stealing, soft and stealthy; a thief in the night.

Dripping and slipping from the edge of eave and sill.

Making its relentless way downwards,

To the waiting, receptive earth.

The rain woke me; rollicking over the rooftops.

Tumbling in torrents from over-taxed pipe and spout.

Riotous and undisciplined; spilling from conduit

and pantile.

Rolling relentlessly downwards,

To the indulgent, saturated earth.

Penny Wheat

Still Waters

47

Parliament of Rooks

Conceive a ring of black birds in a field;

an act of faith, like UFOs or ghosts.

Inside this henge, three prisoners face trial,

mid winter, dusk ― his story, sold to buy

your proxy vote ― fear in their gaze, doom in

their stance; gothic, apocryphal, remote.

When he returns the circle‘s broken up.

Seduced to take a closer look, he finds

feather haloes; corpses, blinded, half plucked.

Brings back Big Brother love, the guillotine,

stoning to death, neighbourhood bullying

in public view, a signal to the rest,

the righteous punishment for breaking some

unspeakable sectarian taboo.

Peter Branson


48

Peter Branson

Death and the Lady

Outside, herself again, effects of kill

and cure alleviated by the news,

she‘s dancing early morning Braille grace notes

along the woodland ride. She pauses, high

on her consultant‘s view, ‘Not visible,’ charmed by a ring-of-feathers fairy sign

against the broken stile. ‘Yon sparrow hawk,’

he answers to the question on her mind

as yet unasked; ‘her feeding post.’ She knows

him from the local, captain‘s chair, beer mug

above the bar; old gamekeeper, skin like

gnarled bark, wax jacket, corduroy, retired.

‘Whole different world,’ to poison, trap or shoot

all compromises to his grand design:

‘I’d bide nest-side for hours, stock still. One day

she lighted on my gun, dark mantle, wing,

locked feet, mere inches from my gaze.’ He peers

behind her fear-crazed eye and reads her pain,

admires her pulsing breast, life force within.

‘I let her be that spring. Next year? Lord knows!’

Still Waters

49

Peter Branson

The Boat House (London Rowing Club, Putney)

This is the season for it, not when fields

are iced iron-rut or frayed brown corduroy

or loud with corn; rather when bells are pitched

to tune with living things, the rising sap,

white blossom, throstle, lark, hormonal rooks.

These days the stallion‘s bolted, door distressed -

I‘m speaking generally of course ― and yet

it‘s not died out nor been replaced. Young folk

don‘t change that much, still feel the need to pledge

their troth in front of family and friends,

the world to judge. So what of this bright pair

who‘ve pulled us here today, twin oars ― one boat?

They‘ve chosen well I think, each other, this,

the food and drink, the company, the view.


50

Peter Shilston

Homage to Rupert Brooke (Can be sung to the tune of the Prelude to Act III of ‘Carmen’ by Bizet)

The boy who sang by Granta‘s stream

Of spires and fenland, games and laughter in the

morning

Taken by a wider dream

Out eastwards sees the golden sun of blazing dawning

Hears a voice singing proudly now of songs of war

and duty

beauty

Youth and honour lie in Flanders field

And by the banks of Somme and Yser seek for fame

A sword to draw, a lance to wield

A shield to bear the man that dies to win a name

And hear him sing, Now may God be thanked who

matched us with his hour

power

Still Waters

51

Loud rejoicing as the boat sails away

To sun-baked islands, seas that once were dark as wine

Where heroes fought a burning day

And deeds as brightly as the Hellene sun will shine

And so he goes, seeking Ilium‘s walls and Hector‘s

martial story

for the

Boy who sang by Granta‘s stream

In storm and glory

To the war

Is gone.

(Rupert Brooke was a young poet who, excited by

the coming of the First World War, was sent out to

fight in the eastern Mediterranean, only to die of an

infected mosquito bite on the island of Skyros

before he saw any action.)


52

Phil Emery

The Beggar's Soap Opera ― or Five Days Found

in October (on realising TV listings encapsulate how truly banal-to-the-point-of-absurdity soap operas are)

Monday:

Chloe is haunted by a nightmare,

Lucy is shattered by the outcome of her IVF programme,

Kelly disapproves of Ken's latest woman,

Carol confides in David and Kathy shocks Pat and

Roy with unexpected news,

Can Cindy convince everyone she's the innocent victim

of recent events?

Joe finds a mentor.

Tuesday:

Karl and Susan's holiday is a nightmare, and Danni

goes on a costly shopping spree,

Is Zenotti about to destroy the evidence of his

shady building practices?

Shirley joins Rosemary on a trek,

Pat and Roy share wedding day nerves,

Ollie takes drastic measures to keep Nat and Georgia

apart and Little Jimmy causes heartache.

The bells ring out.

Still Waters

53

Wednesday:

The identity of the canine attacker is revealed,

Debbie opens her heart to Phil,

Des is finding it hard to come to terms with Claire's

secrecy,

Recriminations begin to fly about the Simpson family's

past.

Julia's forced to reminisce.

Thursday:

Chloe's nightmares continue,

Lucy decides to have an operation,

Meanwhile, Luke receives some bad news,

Cindy deceives Kathy, but Ian is not so easily fooled,

Jack fights hard to defeat Frank's plans.

Nelson's seeing double.

Friday:

Curtis takes Chloe to the psychiatrist,

Toadie makes an exhibition of himself,

Maureen asks Bill if he would like to spend the eve-

ning with her,

Little Jimmy causes more troubles with his drug habit.

Werewolves in Ambridge?


54

Stella Dollin

Word Salute

When it was my birthday

And I was only six,

I scooped you up together

And made a wondrous mix

I made a careful selection;

Said thank you for the card

You were all in lower cases

‗Cause uppers were too hard.

Long before I knew ‗creative‘

I met ‗tingling‘, ‗shining‘, ‗ringing‘

Before ‗onomatopoeia‘

I found ‗crystal‘, ‗glistening‘, ‗singing‘.

To capture a scene so wonderful

I thought, ‗What can I say?‘

You jostled for position

In a dazzling bright array.

I said I‘ll choose ‗magnificent‘

Tomorrow ‗panoramic‘;

Four letter ‗nice‘ is not despised

And vibrant is dynamic.

Still Waters

55

Stella Dollin

To assemble you together,

To be poignant, humorous, glad,

Gave expression to my feelings

Were they jubilant or sad

What would we do without you

In patterns so discerning?

We unlock your store and you are there

The core of all our learning.

Chains

The chains that one chooses are willingly sought,

They bring blessed security and cannot be bought.

The chain that will bind you is equally shared,

In a true bond of friendship you cannot be snared.

If it is giving in friendship, a pledge, or in marriage,

The chain is your choice, though it may be disparaged.

Be proud of those links that forge stronger with time,

Your chains are not fetters but a bond so sublime.


56

Stella Dollin

Splashes of Colour

The weather is grey

My heart even duller

Then a baby just smiles

And there are splashes of colour.

I switch into the news

There are earthquakes and crashes

Then one small act of courage

And there is colour in splashes.

I search for expression

It is way out of sight

Then inspiration illumines

And there are slashes of light.

I see through a glass only dimly

Through the mists I see only in part

When the veil lifts, it‘s a revelation

There is a rainbow in my heart.

Still Waters

57

Stephanie Spiers

Jupiter Ascending

Winter comes:

thoughts turn evermore to death.

The good light is gone.

Depression hovers in the eaves,

fog lingers on the leaves.

Heavy dewfall on grass stays all day.

Leaves fade to gold and russet: a debt to pay.

Jupiter is leaving ascending in the night sky

trailing its moons: visible to the naked eye.

October threatens, arriving with umbrellas.

Flooding and misery follow in its wake.

Cut back the brambles, grub up the marrows.

Candle the pumpkins, store the windfalls, make

haste. Chop logs. Light the fires.


58

December Drowning

Through life now she wanders lonely:

trudges, brought low, along streets and

passing bright houses,

where never once a friendly face peers out.

No kindly host, no golden saviour.

Under leaden skies, beneath bus shelters,

she cowers shivering. Dithers in the rain.

Continuous bombardment by cares that hammer

and beat with every blow.

Worries stretched in never-ending thud

along the margins of every hour of every day.

Ten thousand queuing in a dance,

tossing inside her every dreamscape.

Shopping trolley, abandoned by taxi rank,

too cold to wait longer. Wanders away. Unloved.

Shouting voices inside her leer.

Inadequate. Inadequate. Inadequate.

Oh, for the quiet bliss of solitude:

tempting, dark glass-still waters beckon.

Stephanie Spiers

Still Waters

59

Stephanie Spiers

Latch Key Kids

Latch key kids against the wall,

blow on their hands, watch snow fall.

Rough bricks rub against their backs

cold, wet flakes soak their packs.

Red raw faces, remote and steadfast,

sodden salt crisps their only breakfast.

Lads with trousers holed at the knee,

loud girls huddle, two and three.

Legs so thin, knees so huge,

matted hair washed by the deluge.

Drops blinked by a deep, sad eye,

with grief remembered, youth gone by.


60

Stephen Harvey

Think

Silence is my enemy,

I don't need time to think.

My thoughts betray my emptiness,

then deeper down I sink.

I hide myself in masquerades,

behind a serpent smile.

On the outside often gladsome like,

On the inside just a child.

You've never seen the real me,

he's trapped inside my head.

Exploring paranoia,

reviewing what‘s been said.

He seeks out hidden meaning,

disguised in words of love.

looking for a normal life,

that he knows won‘t be enough.

Castles

Why do we build castles,

that wash away with the tide?

It's because life is a journey.

You pay for a ticket,

Climb aboard.

Then, hold on tight for the ride

Still Waters

61

Stephen Harvey

Melancholy

Winter had died a slow and lingering demise.

As spring‘s subtle silhouette hinted at better times.

Warmer fruit-filled days will soon come.

The sun will break from behind the clouds.

This was a promise that mother nature,

had never once failed to deliver.

She will lighten my mood as quickly as snow had

dampened it.

but: with the inevitability of the season‘s return

that will always remain with me forever more.

Princess

Daughter of the red giant Jupiter,

Princess of Sun and grantor of life.

Your embrace radiates warmth my way,

I find myself dreaming within your light.

Yet, hopelessly lost for perfection in prose.

A name I dare only to whisper in sleep.


62

Stephen Harvey

The Tommy Knockers

Knock, knock, tap, tap! What‘s that sound?

The soul of a collier trapped under ground.

He'll stays down there till the end of time.

Buried under mountains of darkness and slime

Knock, knock, tap, tap! Who goes there?

A Tommy Knocker whispers in the midnight air.

The sound of his tapping will serve no doubt

To warn us of a danger when it's time to get out

The Old Man of Mow

He sits alone in his old arm chair,

the guardian of all he surveys.

His quarried featureless expressions,

are a constant in an un-certain time.

A world where he has no voice,

only time to kill and weather to storm.

He lives only for the now.

His ancient morals like granite stand,

the mighty Man of Mow.

Still Waters

63

Sue Brown

Wake-Over

Tuesday, 2pm;

a tumble of teens through the door,

all skinny jeans and tight crop tops

they herd into the hall;

slender and elegant,

sure-footed as sheep,

picking their way with easy precision

through the clutter and detritus of our family life.

Later they will stray upstairs,

slake their girlish thirst on sweet Bacardi-Breezers,

leave sticky rings of drink on table-tops,

smear pizza-grease down chairs.

In the still, small hours

their restless hooves will drum across the ceiling of

my sleep;

rumpling my thoughts,

creasing my dreams.


64

Sue Brown

Somebody’s Son

There you are Karl;

hard by the verge,

a little tarnished with the passage of time,

still bright and burning in the eyes of those who knew you;

love and loss measured in fresh welters of flowers.

Was yours the quiet simplicity of hearth and home?

Or were you more an Alpha-Man?

A Petrol-Head living on the edge;

death the merest speck against your wide-blue horizons.

Were you running on empty

that drear December dawn?

Ill-at-ease,

out-of-sorts with all around?

A dry, cracking tension deep inside your mind

as you hit that unfamiliar road;

sleek and dark in the half-light,

curved and tempting as a lover

as you took the bend at speed

and slammed into forever.

You made your mark that day Karl;

beat the town into shocked, traffic-clogged submission,

hours later, freed up

yet reeling at the site of gaping railings,

the rawness of newly-wounded earth,

we press on with the grateful tedium of our own ordinary

lives.

Still Waters

65

Sue Brown

Tony Loves Marilyn; Pass it on Tony is old and gnomic; a little hide-bound with habitude, his eyes are blood-hound slack, his chin bristles with a rough stubbling of unrelenting grey. Marilyn is older still, yet ever young; nightly she steals through the shadow-land of his dreams, teasing and ethereal in softly billowing folds of wind-blown white, and the blonde shock of her unearthly hair Tony loves her with a passion untrammelled by time; she is the bright embodiment of feminine perfection, the focus for his elderly, unfettered lust, Seductress, siren, screen goddess; an unholy Trinity rolled into one. Sometimes Tony broods on all the might-have-beens; the whys and wherefores of her sad, untimely death. He would have ridden to her rescue, slain her inner-demons, stayed her tremulous, executing hand. Tony‘s role these days is loving keeper of the flame, tender guardian of her heart, his shabby home a shrine to all things Marilyn; from kitsch to coarse, via curious and back again she guards his change, marks the passing of the hours, pouts down at him from every shelf and wall, covers him in bed with her iconic body. Tonight Tony will catch her, hold her fast embrace her fading form, tomorrow he will wake alone as usual, hollow with the hungry longing of the years.


66

Sue Cantrill

At the Post Office

The big day had arrived;

I had only just survived

Until now.

Be still my beating heart;

We shall never be apart

Any more.

I looked around the store,

The queue was right out the door.

What the heck!

Joined at the very end;

My valentines card to send

Just to you

Shuffled ever nearer;

My mission even clearer:

You I need

Always part of my life;

To be my partner, my wife.

My turn came;

Hands shaking, mouth so dry,

Feelings I should clarify.

Then I spoke

These words I know are true:

‗Cashier two, I do love you.‘

Still Waters

67

Totally Irresistible

Large brown eyes

Staring up at me.

How can I resist?

I must be strong;

Shout very loud.

What a naughty boy

To have eaten something

Meant for someone else.

You are very, very bad!

Still those eyes

Melt my heart.

I cannot resist my dog;

He cannot resist

Terry‘s chocolate oranges.

Sue Cantrill


68

Sue Cantrill

The Concert

Crowds jostling,

Eager anticipation,

Waiting, watching

For the fun to start.

The stage is set

For a momentous night,

Drums, rows of guitars,

Microphone stands everywhere.

Noise gets louder,

Clapping cheering

As musicians enter.

Amps pumped up,

Vocalists sing,

Excitement rises,

Great crescendo

As he struts onto the stage,

And you let him

Entertain you

As only Robbie can.

Still Waters

69

Acknowledgements Front Cover: Faith Hickey Back Cover: Ian McMillan photograph by A Mealing Printed by Panda Press (Stone) Ltd, Staffordshire ST15 8JU Paper used does not contain chlorine bleach.


70

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NOT FOR RESALE

ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

is

Rising Brook Writers’ fifth poetry collection.

The twenty-four

contributing poets participate in

Rising Brook Writers’ weekly

library and online workshops.

Our Patron: The Renowned Poet Ian McMillan

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

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