Thursday 31 May 2012

THE OLD DOG:



When you´re lost & cannot find your way,
Allow the old dog to walk before you,
When you cannot find right words to say,
In his silence the old dog talks too.

When you feel sad & all alone,
Know the old dog is by your side,
He´s there for your love & not the bone,
He´ll never hurt you & has never lied.

When your soul is light & full of joy,
Share with your friend of many a year,
To him, your happiness his favourite toy,
Run your fingers through his thinning fur.

His velvet nose in the palm of your hand,
Whenever you have the need to talk,
The old dog will know & understand,
All he wants is to go for a walk.

Feel his paw upon your hand,
Too remove from this crazy world, the fog,
If you really want to understand,
Look deep into the eyes,
Of a very old dog.

WHERE THE EARTH IS DRY:



The young soldier cries tears of blood,
Where the earth is dry,
Where gritty war rages,
Where life´s corpse lies.

Old woman, prostrated upon broken knee,
Where the earth is dry,
Praying to her Lord,
Asking him why?

Orphaned child, tear stained cheek,
Where the earth is dry,
Where is warmth, where is love?
Please don´t let me cry.

A universe hand in hand,
Where the earth is dry,
Gripping, fear of letting go,
Relieve this hungry earth.

We all cry, we all sigh, we all die,
Let it rain,
Release its pain,
Where the earth is dry.

EARTH:



Grind, chew,
Spit & spew,
Giant jaws clamp,
Metal teeth grind,
Turning the earth, sodden, damp,
How the earth smells,
How the earth yells,
Clods of muddy tears,
Left sleeping through private years,
Now, the earth weeps crunchy sobs,
Of everything the human robs,
Turn & churn,
Yield & yearn,
Wet weeping soil,
Only man is made to spoil,
Dig it up, leave it nude,
Black gaping hole, so cruel & crude,
Reveals her heart, her entrails, her soul,
Leave the earth sad weeping alone,
The worm, the bug, seed, root & weed,
The earth is all they need, to live, to breed,
Leave the creatures beneath the dark to play,
Please man, for where is God I pray?
Cover the hole & patch the tear,
Cover the wound aching in despair,
Leave the earth to bird, beast, mole & fox,
For God´s sake, the earth needs not another concrete box.

ZIMBABWE- ZIMBABWE:



Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, hold my hand & run,
We´ll run through the bush in your everlasting sun,
We´ll cry your rivers of wet happy joy,
We´ll bring happiness to every Picinnini boy.

The falls & lion roar mighty loud,
They shout, “We are Zimbabwe & we are proud, so proud”,
The hush-night whispers, the baboon yawns & hides,
Black & white rhino fight, as the black & white men have done,
But if you are of Zimbabwe, you have all, everybody won.

Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, hold my hand & run,
We´ll run through the bush in your everlasting sun,
We´ll cry your rivers of wet happy joy,
We´ll bring happiness to every Picinnini boy.

Your dust is proud to be your dust,
And in you, your people have put their trust,
Your greens & browns, your earth & sky,
Make your waterfalls flow from my hungered eye,
Thundering waters of tears cold & loud,
Shout, “I am Zimbabwe, I am proud, so proud”.

BOTSWANA TIM:



Botswana Tim, born amongst dust, laid upon thorn,
Delta blue skies reflect in your eyes,
Look far bush baby, reach Maun´s dawn,
Dusty tear upon chubby cheek before drought dies.

You played many an era upon swampy green shore,
I love you bush brother, as you love marula wild,
Look no further Botswana Tim, there is no more,
You´re now a bush-man, not a dusty little child.

Your life Ngami, your tears Thamalakane deep,
I see you bronze dust face, your old felt hat,
Forever with the lion walk, forever beneath mimosa sleep,
Botswana Tim. May Maun be forever your welcome mat.

Wednesday 30 May 2012

THE MEEK:


In the hurdy-gurdy world we live in,
Of noise, filth, poverty & sin,
Under booted foot & suited fist,
We cower & cringe beneath blood hazed mist.

The din, the big, the harsh, hard & brash,
The swearing, the glaring, the abuse & the lash,
The bright, the beautiful, the dollar, oil & gold,
The mighty, the city, politicians & the bold.

The roar, the traffic, big-cats, the thuds & the bangs,
The heavy, everywhere it´s there, it sits & hangs,
But what of the gentle, the silent, the soft & the meek?
Those that exist but in silence deemed weak.

The soft-hoofed giraffe, the whispering moth,
Velveteen fur of the sleepy old sloth,
The swan who cries once, just before it dies,
The satin-cloth wings of quiet butterflies.

The slow tortoise & the silent little snail,
Soft floating snowflakes, not just the hail,
And what of the moonbeams soft in the night?
It´s not just the sun in his stark brilliant might.

The gentle smile of the tiny little child,
Not the rantings of drunk students wild,
The old man´s tales of sepia times past,
Not just the beautiful folk travelling life fast.

The quiet stars blinking in far distant sky,
Not mad society racing fast to die,
Let´s take time to listen to the soul,
Where we hear silence of root, leaf & mole.

Stop the madness of doing, wanting, gaining & baying,
Listen to silence in the meek & start praying,
Stay still, breathe deep, listen & see,
It´s  alright to be meek & to  just be.

MAMA AFRICA:



Your face etched upon old cave walls,
Your smile painted by a million suns,
Your laughter echoes through eon’s halls,
Your legacy to Africa´s daughters & sons.

Water pot carried upon your head,
Baby strapped tight to your warm back,
Feet plodding, cracked as drought & hard as lead,
Carrying all you own in old hessian sack.

You search, you carry, you sow, you reap,
You walk for miles seeking food & herbs,
You smile, but inside you eternally weep,
You tell your secrets only to beast & birds.

As the spider, you weave strong web of silk,
Uniting your continent in a colourful quilt,
Backbone of Africa, of blood, dust & milk,
You´re the earth on which Africa is built.

THE STEP:



The old grey kitchen step sat beneath the old man´s withered thigh,
Cold & cracked, just like its sitter´s arthritic bones & rheumy eye,
Built by the old man´s pa, many moons ago when he was just a boy,
This familiar step, sat on through life´s pain & through many a joy.

Young snotty lad of scuffed shoe, droopy sock & crunchy apple cheek,
Watching Nan’s wind-blown knickers on the line every day of every week,
Pushing wooden home-made car over imaginary roads & dreamy ways,
This step, played on by a little boy who owned long endless days.

Sulky teenage days, watching heavenly heavy hipped girls pass by,
Libido going up in forbidden hormonal smoke & frustrated sigh,
 This place of young man´s unspoken desires & secret dreams,
This step where teenage lad sat & secretly screamed.

Sitting watching the stars next to Mary, who breast-feeds baby son,
 A son long gone, taken out of existence by war´s far foreign gun,
Holding hands, soft words of love, giggles & flowing tears,
This step has been sat on through happiness & many fears.

Now old, dreams garbed in wrinkled weathered grey bone,
Nobody left, no boy, no teenager, no father, only grey stone,
The only legacy left from father to son is hard cold & grey,
This step has seen it all from the first happy, to the last sad day.

Tuesday 29 May 2012

BLACKBIRD:



Today I saw your crushed little body on the road. Your ebony feathers glinting in the sun, shivering in the breeze as though still alive, & yet you were gone. Your vibrant yellow beak silenced now, robbed of your beautiful song. The spring breeze lifted one of your light feathers & danced it to my stilled feet. I bent down to pick it up with tears running down my cheek; it was so soft, so gentle. I will keep this little feather of yours as a gift from your spirit, your being, in your memory.  A lone little blackbird, crushed beneath a passing car; who knows? Who cares?  I know, I care.  You existed; you were here on this earth, so you counted. I want you to have a safe journey back to your original home. I want you to know that on this earth you have a friend who saw you live, saw you die, and loved you, me. Fly home free my friend.

HOMAGE TO FEATHERS:



To the squeaks, tweets, squawks, twits, whoops, toots, quacks, song,
To the talons & claws, to legs, delicate & fine, thick & strong,
To bill & beak, whatever size or shape, no matter where,
To eye of hawk, of bead, of every stare, peep & glare,
To eyrie, cave, tree, grass, bush, branch & nest,
To feathers, dun, rainbow, coarse & soft, of wing & breast,
To strutting, swaggering, hopping, swaying & elegant stride,
To diving, swimming, flying, & the magnificent glide,
To eggs, gigantic, tiny & minute, of every colour & hue,
To all my feathered friends & guides, I bow down to you,
I pay you homage & pray you will always be around,
In sky, on water, & on our sacred ground.

PAMPAS:



Today I want to run away, not from anything, but towards myself, & to do that I am going to Argentina. I am transported to the Pampas, those magnificent prairies of nothingness where there is nothing to disturb the soul. The empty countryside goes on forever & melds with the horizon where the sun is saluting the day. I sit on the stubbly grass & look around me. In the distance there are some Gauchos on horseback, whooping & throwing their bolos into the crisp air, but they are far enough not to disturb me. Overhead el "condor pasa", a lone condor dancing seductively with the thermals, weaving his secrets upon a cloudless heat-kissed sky. The silence is majestic in her presence, & I am totally & utterly alone & at one with the earth & sky. I have my eyes closed, feeling the breeze upon my cheek, & the aromas of wild herbs lull me into oblivion. Suddenly, from nowhere a black stallion is standing in front of me with a Gaucho astride his magnificent back. The man is swarthy & wrapped in a colourful blanket which hides his smile, & I only see his dark smouldering eyes in the shade of his sombrero as he bends down from his steed & hands me a silver cup with a silver straw, saying, “su mate Señora". He turns & gallops off, leaving a cloud of dust, disappearing into nothing. I sip my ancient tribal tea, mate, it is bitter, hot & acrid, like my tired soul, just what I need to clear out the past & face the reality of today.

BIRD LADY:



I leave my shadowy place today & take a gentle walk in the park. The sun is shining, dappled shade playing with the autumn leaves. I see an old lady sitting on a bench & her smile invites me to sit next to her. She is feeding the birds with bread crumbs & they seem to understand her as if she were one of them. She talks about life & ages gone by, not with bitterness but with nostalgia. I ask where she is from & she tells me she is from nowhere & everywhere. She asks me what it is that is troubling me. I ask her how she knows I have troubles, & she takes my hand in her gnarled brown fingers, looks deep into my eyes & says, “just follow the birds & you will never go wrong". I tell her I am going to the cafe behind us in the park to get us a cup of tea, & she just smiles. I get two cups of tea & return to the bench, but she has gone, just disappeared into thin air. To get out of the park she would have had to pass the cafe where I was getting our tea, but I never saw her pass. I asked  the people who sat on the bench next to ours if they had seen the old lady who had been sitting on the bench with me, but they said they had just seen me sitting on my own, & they had seen me get up & go to the cafe, but there had been no old lady. Surely they could not have missed her, as she had been dressed in a myriad of colours, with an old straw hat on her head, & people would have stared at her. I sat down on the bench again & sipped my steaming tea out of the polystyrene cup, perplexed. Was I losing my mind? Then my eye caught sight of a beautiful white feather lying at my feet & when I picked it up, underneath it, in the sand, was written, “Always follow the birds & you will never go wrong”.

CEYLON; A HOMAGE:



Today I am going for a walk with my Dad. He died 3 years ago, but we still walk, still talk. We are in the old Ceylon, the country of his birth. We walk hand in hand until we get to the crest of a hill overlooking a beautiful tea plantation below, nestled between green misty valleys. It is that time of day when the night dew is beginning to evaporate in the early friendly sunshine. Behind us we hear the cascading splashing of the waterfalls that run down from the surrounding mountains. Below us in emerald, verdant splendour lie the tea plants in bushy lush rows. The gentle tea-pickers in their jewel coloured saris & big tea baskets on their backs, bend & pluck the tender tea leaves while they are still fresh with the dawn´s dew, & as they bob up & down they resemble butterflies flitting from plant to plant, exotic & exquisite in their fluid movements. My Dad is smiling a gentle smile, a smile of the lost memories of his free & wild childhood within these hills. He turns to me & without spoken words, I know he has forgiven me my sepia sins of past misdeeds, & I in turn, have forgiven him for being the father who never knew how to play. From behind us appears a lady in gossamer sari matching the sky, her golden bangles clink as she places a tray of rich Ceylon tea & plate of delicate wafers before us, & she disappears as silently as a moth´s whisper. Dad & I sip our tea & memories in silence, looking down at the tea plantation below us. We both know, we both love, & we are both at peace. Blessings Dad may you always find happiness wherever you are.

SAMHAIN:



In the USA it is Halloween where they celebrate with trick or treating & pumpkin smiles. In Catholic countries they take flowers to their graves & eat "Saints bones"- little marzipan sweets shaped as bones. In Mexico families gather at their dearly beloved´s graves & feast with the departed, sharing their morsels with those whom have gone. Witches gather in their covens around their cauldrons, boil & bubble, toil & trouble. The Hindus have their lights. The dead have their day & folk have their way of acknowledging them. But I have my way too & my journey is another one.
RITUAL:
I don my robe of white, close my front door & go on my way into the forest. It is a very special day today, for the Celts, of which I am one. The night is cold & clear, the stars, hard diamond chips tossed upon a black velvet mantle, the moon, but a slither, a slice of silver etched delicately between the scudding clouds which move stealthily across the sky, lending haunting shadows to the silent forest. The gnarled tree trunks grimace with age, owls hoot a greeting, bats flutter & bow before me as I pass beneath the canopy of this enchanted forest. I arrive at the sacred Grove, a clearing surrounded by ancient oaks. The Bards are dressed in their oratory robes of the inspiring blue sky, the Ovates in their sage- green herbed hoods, & the Druids whom have arrived at infinite wisdom, the Priests of nature are dressed in pristine, pure white. We all enter through the big stone portals, forming a circle, leaving our lanterns in the centre of the circle giving off a magical glow. We bless our circle & consecrate it with water from the sacred well, & with fire & with sword. The horn is blown; homage is paid to the four elements & the Gods & Goddesses who protect them. Chants are chanted, prayers are prayed, thanks are given to the Highest, Awens are said, & repeated three times. We partake of the broken bread & sip of the golden mead from the chalice of plenty. The dead are remembered on this night, & the gossamer veil is at its sheerest for us to feel the departed close by, & for them to see us unseen, but knowing we are thinking of them. The circle is undone, we exit through the portal & make our way to the crest of the hill beyond the forest, & dawn is awakening in the valleys & in ourselves. We sit on the rocks in silence as a beautiful Druidess hands us each a cup of liquorice tea & arrowroot biscuits. The sun rises on the distant horizon, the dew sparkles on the delicate spider webs on the surrounding shrubs, the dove coos, & I thank the Cosmos for how I feel. Blessings to everyone.

MANTLE OF DREAMS:



I am walking in a winter forest & have lost my way. The sky has disappeared in its whiteness; the trees & ground have become one in this soft, white, sparkling silence. The only sound I hear is my own breathing as I plod through this icy labyrinth. I now smell smoke, a woody warm scent tickling my frozen nostrils, & after a few more steps, through a cathedral of gigantic, snow-clad trees, I spy a log cabin. From the eaves of this little haven´s roof hang long crystal icicles, & from the little chimney there is the woody culprit that tickled my nose minutes ago, a curling friendly twirl of smoke. In one of the windows there is a golden glow, & when I get closer I see it is the most delicate little teapot lamp, its gentle light inviting me closer. I knock on the little wooden door with the wolf´s head door-knocker & the door is opened by a lovely old lady dressed in black with a pointed hat atop her silver hair. Her green eyes sparkle with a smile & she beckons me in. In the little cabin it is warm & cosy & she tells me to sit in the rocking chair by the fire to warm myself while she finishes her task. There is three-legged pot suspended over the orange flames & fruity, warm, pungent aromas arise from it. A black cat lying in front of the hearth stretches & opens one emerald eye & goes back to sleep. I watch the old lady at her task. She is sitting at a spindle spinning, but I cannot see any yarn as her nimble fingers swiftly work at what looks like nothing. She rises, smiles, & then she comes over to the hearth where she unhooks a ladle hanging from a hook, & ladles some of the pungent liquid into forest-green mugs. She offers me wild honey to sweeten my beverage & a plate of almond cookies. The tea is fruity & feral to my pallet & she tells me it is tea made from fruits of the forest, gathered with the morning dew still on the berries. After tea I rose to leave, thanking her for her hospitality & as I was leaving, I asked what she was spinning as I had not seen anything. She smiled, & made to envelop me in an invisible cloak. She looked deep into my eyes & said, " I have spun for you a mantle of dreams, which I now enfold you in. It is lighter than the lace web of a spider, softer than an Angel´s whisper, more delicate than gossamer, more translucent than an autumn mist, but its powers are stronger than life itself. With this mantle you wake up to the knowledge that dreams are what YOU make." With these words she closed the door & I went back the way I came. I looked back to find there was no little cabin with the lighted teapot in the window, it had gone, but I carry my mantle of dreams with me every day.

Monday 28 May 2012

SCOTTISH LOCH:



Today I am going to sit by a quiet Scottish loch. I am heading for Loch Ness to be precise. It is a quiet evening of melancholic mists & muted Autumnal colours. The dappled cloud - swept sunshine struggles to smile, but I do not mind today, because it is a thoughtful evening full of wistfulness & there is quiet wisdom to be gleaned from the gloaming. The loch shimmers pewter & mysterious, cold & crisp, hiding aeons of secrets unknown to humble humans. In the distance the sound of a lone bagpiper lends his tune to the highlands, whilst nearer to where I am sitting on an old tartan blanket, on the banks of this silent haven, the emperor of the highlands stands bugling his status, shaking his great antlered head with pride, knowing that this is his land. The stag greets me with a nod & goes on his way, an otter splashes a slippery splash & disappears, an owl flies overhead into the dusk, & I am now totally alone. I open my flask & pour myself a cup of strong golden tea & I give it a friendly dram of the good stuff which I sip, the steam from my whiskeyed tea mingling with the Autumnal mists & the crunching of my buttered shortbread, & all is well with my world. Across the lake I see Nessie rise, shake her ancient head for just a split second, just enough for me to believe she exists.

SACHA:



 On my daily walks I have realized that there are a lot of lonely people in this world. The folk you see plodding the pavements, the old man with a dog, the old lady carrying a heavy shopping bag, the young  woman sitting on a park bench, the man propping up the bar on any street corner. We all know them, or of them, but we do not have the time to really stop and get close to these people, whom for some reason have  reached the door of loneliness. We all feel lonely, ignored & forgotten at times. Life happens, we leave home, go to new places, immigrate to far flung  lands, we get married, divorced, kids leave home, life- partners die, & a thousand other things  happen to us  that can bring us to the brink of being totally alone. I would like to introduce you to my old friend Sacha  who died alone, & through her life story, made me realize that I should always stop & pat the dog of the old man, help the old lady carry her heavy shopping bag, smile, say hello, all such simple things that do not cost money, but makes the lonely feel that they are not alone because someone has taken the trouble to recognize that they exist.   Sacha was an old Russian lady from the golden age, & whom I met when I was 5 years old in the old Botswana in the 50s. She was always old & always bold. She had long silver hair past her knees that she plaited & coiled around her proud head which would be topped with an old straw hat & dangly silver earrings. She dressed in off-shoulder peasant blouses showing off her ample bosom, & huge dirndle skirts with dramatic colourful motifs. Sacha was from a poor family in Russia & she loved to sing & dance, & as her parents didn’t have the means for classes, she scrubbed the wooden floors of a dance studio in her village in exchange for classes. One day while on her hands & knees scrubbing her knuckles raw, the fabulous ballet dancer Pavlova came in & asked Sacha to dance with her, & she never tired of telling her story. She married a young soldier Stefan at 15, had a baby at 16, & saw both her young husband & baby bayoneted & killed before her eyes in the revolution. After that, she escaped to China in a little boat, where she met Sidney, or "my Sidka as she called him", a very proper, be-suited Englishman who worked for the customs there. But they had to escape from another revolution, & they ended up in Bechuanaland Protectorate (Botswana) where I was living. Sacha would take me fishing, hunt crocodiles, tell my fortune, dance on tables, laughing raucously, & at the same time, weep copiously over lost loves. She was poetry in motion. She & I would sit on the Matlapaneng bridge at dawn sharing a flask of tea & singing to the hippos as the African dawn materialised over the Thamalakane river. Later we would go back to her little house where she would brew up a strong tea called Czar Nikolas II tea in her silver, dragon-handled samovar which we would have with her homemade mango ice-cream tasting of golden African sunsets. Sacha had literally walked continents, loved fiercely , danced everywhere, sang always, & lived life to the full, & today I pay homage to her because there is not a soul on this planet who would remember her today. There is more about her in my book, but here there are limits to what one can write. Remember those whom have no one to remember them. Blessings.x

DESERT:



I feel we need a bit of space so we are going into the desert. We are mounted on ships of the desert, camels. We are in a line, one in front of the other, led by an Arab guide. Our mounts undulate as they plod along the never ending sand, & we give over to the soporific swaying which calms us & gives us a chance to observe the apparently empty space around us, but is it empty? The endless sky above, a cyan blue that is continued through our garb, robes that cover us from head to toe, leaving only our searching eyes visible. The all enveloping air is hot & very, very white. There is a circle of vultures close to the sun, dancing with the thermals, round & round, forever vigilant at what is happening below them. Below the hot yellow sand there is constant movement, a snake, a scorpion, a lizard, a beetle, little creatures surviving where we cannot even see nor imagine. The dunes constantly shifting, changing shape before our eyes leaving us magically disorientated. The night arrives suddenly without warning just as we see an oasis of green trees. When we enter this paradise of cool ponds & waving fronds of date palms we dismount to let our camels rest & slake their thirst. We are led into a beautiful jaima where we sit on jewelled coloured cushions & we are served refreshing mint tea in little gold glasses, sweetened with date sugar. We are also handed a plate of carob biscuits to accompany our tea. As we sip in silence we contemplate the starry heavens, the heavily pregnant full moon suspended by magic, & the space, all that space, and we feel so very small. In the bigger picture, no problem is really that important & this is something the desert has taught us. Enjoy your day.

MOUNTAIN:



We are going up a mountain, ready? We sit at the base of the mountain looking up trying to find the peak which is hidden in the clouds & covered in snow. We are wrapped up snug in bright warm colours & all we can see of each other are our pink noses. We are sitting around a bright RED fire warming our hands, preparing for our ascent & feeling a connection with the earth. We rise & start walking up the small path. We go through a closed canopy of burnished ORANGE Autumn trees & with every step we feel energised.The further up we go, & the colder it gets, the trees turn to YELLOW & we know we shall reach our goal, the pinnacle. The ascent gets steeper, we pass through a corridor cold-immune pines which are protected by overhanging rocks, & this gives off a haunting GREEN light on our path which fills us with emotion. The higher we get, the closer to the sky we are which is a crisp, bright BLUE & this provokes whoops of glee from us after miles of puffing silence. Suddenly, without warning we are there, & we stumble to a big boulder where we sit to catch our breath. The view is beyond words & we are quiet again, to match our surroundings, which are bathed in spiritual silence, broken only by the soaring eagle above, before he dips into the INDIGO shadows of the mountains. From our knapsacks we unpack our tea. We sit & sip our white tea, champagne of teas, dipping our white chocolate biscuits into our steaming tin mugs, the world at our feet, feeling truly blessed at this magnificent VIOLET-WHITE vista below & around us. I suddenly realise that we have ascended through the colours of chakras, cleansing & renewing ourselves with every step. Thank you for coming with me on my trip. Have a peaceful Sunday everyone.

WOODS:



 It is a misty Autumn day with the smoky smell of encroaching Winter nipping at my nose. I am wrapped up snug in warm woolies. Entering the woods I pass a small tor with an opening which I nosily peep into, & to my delight I see a big brown bear curled up on a bed of leaves dreaming his hibernating dreams. Smiling, I leave him be & go on my way. As I pass beneath the inflamed canopy of Autumn, the towering ancient trees dress me in russet, orange, gold, & scarlet leaves morphing me into a woodland nymph. My footsteps crunching nature´s fall causes a fiery squirrel clutching an acorn to scarper up a tree, a red fox darts, a tawny owl hoots, & I apologise for the disturbance my crunching has caused. I find a grove of trees & sit on the damp mushroomy earth feeling her breathing. Next to me is a curled up hedgehog fast asleep. In the distance I hear the trickle of an icy waterfall as it cackles & crackles with the cold. As I look up at the lemon-drop sun weakly dappling through the trees, I feel a presence & look at the gnarled old oak tree in front of me from where appears an old lady dressed in a cloak of brown. She nods & her smile reaches kindly blue eyes. She hands me an old brown mug made of burnished wood & tells me to drink the hot steaming ginger tea, & she gives me a dark, rich chocolate biscuit telling me it has magic properties. She tells me to make a wish, she turns & disappears. My wish had already come true.

INDIA:



Today I want you all to come with me please. It has been a hot sultry day & the sun is setting beyond the Ganges, red, fuchsia, orange, purple, a painting in the making brushed with the wing-tips of the passing white egrets. Gurus sitting crossed legged on the banks of these ancient waters washing their long wise beards. Naked brown children with dancing eyes are splashing in the scarlet embers of another dying day. We sit embraced by the old roots of a banyan tree watching a long line of beautiful Indian ladies walking by the river. Their brown feet jingling anklets, wet & shining in the muddy water, their braceleted arms above their heads holding on to big baskets containing exotic wares. Their saris, the colours of tropical exotic birds, their long black hair swinging in tune with their swaying walk & golden earrings. As they approach us the aromas of spices pungent & mysterious, explode invading our senses, heady & exciting. They hand us a mug each of steaming Darjeeling chai, & from one of the baskets we are handed a plate of warm, home-made samosas. We are in nirvana as we sip & munch watching the night cover the river Ganges in a blanket of stars.

TROPICAL ISLE:



It is dawn & we are walking along the shore of a tranquil tropical isle. The sky gentle in mauve & primrose, kissed by soft rose clouds that lull the floating white gulls on high. The breeze gentle & friendly upon our early morning cheeks. The ocean is still & quite, resembling ancient turquoise glass & together with the soft wet sand, urges the tension from our tired wiggling toes.. The only music is that of the beating of our hearts in tune with the earth´ breathing. We sit beneath a swaying palm tree feeling the peace when a beautiful young maiden comes towards us carrying a tray on which is a burnished copper urn & beautiful handmade mugs with peacock motifs on the side. This lovely girl is dressed in a sarong matching the sea, with a red hibiscus in her ebony hair. She smiles gently & pours our tea into the mugs and turns to leave, but left us a plate of crisp coconut biscuits. The tea was of pineapple & mango, & as we sipped the hot steaming beverage aromas arose from our mugs, aromas of cardamom & vanilla, aromas that mingled with the island scents of frangipani, oleander & many others to titillate the senses. This is a tea experience of another kind, a quiet Sunday tea away from the rain & cold. Maybe we shall go somewhere spicier tomorrow. Enjoy your weekend.

A BOTSWANA MEMORY:



I sit on an old peppercorn tree trunk under a baobab tree that has seen things we can only imagine & will live into futures we will never see. I am on the river bank at 5 am. The fish eagle dips to catch a fish dodging the jaws of the ever ready crocodile, while the hippo yawns a welcome to the misty day. The promise of another hot day kisses the slow river with mystic mist. The sky is a vast canvas painted with colours not found in any artist´s studio. The sounds of the bush rustle, crackle, squeak & hiss. The lion drinks next to the mighty elephant & the delicate springbok. At the water hole nobody kills, there is a mutual respect at this holy spot, a morning & evening ritual of reverence for water. I sit sipping my steaming hot rooibos tea, African tea out of an old chipped tin mug with my old friend Maruti who tells me tales of the old continent & never has tea tasted so good. A fantasy? No, a reality of my past & if you want to know more about Maruti he is in my book called Lollipops of dust.

DAY DREAMING:



I am in Fortnum & Mason´s elegant tea room, sitting at a small table which is decked in crisp white linen, upon which is set rose-sprigged transparent bone - china, & sparkling silverware shining in the light of the overhead chandelier. I cross my silk-stockinged ankles & slip off my kid gloves as I´m kowtowed to by a frilly - pinnied waitress. I am served my fragrant lapsong-souchong while listening to the elegantly suited & dickie-bowed pianist tickling the ivories of a baby- grand, partly hidden by a tropical palm in the corner by the velvet wine drapes, which obscures the grey morning beyond.I cannot decide whether to sample a Florentine, a cress triangle or violet petite-four from the silver tiered cake stand, when suddenly,...BANG... I am back in my kitchen, in my jim-jams, sipping my chimp brook bond tea in my old familiar chipped mug. Well, come on girls, there is no harm in an everyday housewife dreaming every now & then, is there?

NELSON:


NELSON:
THE MEETING:

I live in the South of Spain, & the day I met Nelson was a public holiday, Dia de Hispanidad, or Spanish day, which is celebrated in most Spanish speaking countries around the world. The date was the 12th of October, & it was a squally, cold & blustery day, a day nobody could walk in without fighting the wind & rain. The fishing boats were warned not to go out to sea & most folk stayed at home. My husband Carlos & I lived in a complex by a beautiful river lined with willow & eucalyptus trees, where the occasionally otters would appear, fish would jump & turtles would bask on warm rocks. There were a lot of different species of birds in the area, including the beautiful coloured kingfishers & exotic African hoopoes, which always reminded me of South Africa, where I had originally came from, & still missed terribly. We were surrounded by lovely countryside where horses grazed & the fields were planted with a sea of waving sunflowers which lit up the surrounding green. It was a beautiful area & we had been happy living there with our two sons Ivan & Xavy, but they were both away from home studying, so Carlos & I were now alone with our faithful Labrador Simba.
When one has a dog, especially a Labrador, you have no excuse not to go out, whatever the weather, & this awful day was no exception. So I got togged out in a plastic rain suit & wellies, as an umbrella would have been of no use in the howling wind, & out we went into the screaming elements. Simba was off like a rocket, straight towards the river which he loved. He ran into the wind, his ears flying back, his tail wagging furiously, tongue hanging out of his mouth, panting with sheer excited joy & freedom, while I followed him gingerly, screwing my eyes up against the stinging rain. Of course my beloved dog just had to go into the swirling swollen river, but as he was already wet it did´nt really matter, but I was rather worried about the furious flow of the currents, but Simba dabbled in the shallows & realized that the water that day was too much for him so he came out & bounded across the meadows with joyous abandon. When he had tired himself out, we headed for home, looking forward to getting Simba & myself dried off & having a hot drink.
As we were approaching home I saw him, a bedraggled bag of brown feathers sitting on my neighbours roof which was directly in front of my bedroom balcony. It was a raptor, but I could´nt make out what kind at that moment because the weather was so bad & he looked so battered. I called to him, but he just watched me with those beady eyes, suspicious & wary. As there was nothing I could do because he was so far up, I took Simba home & when we were dried & warm, I went into my bedroom from where I could see if the bird was still there, & he was, just sitting. It was dusk by that time & getting dark & I thought that he would probably be gone by morning. Needless to say, I did not sleep very well that night thinking of that poor sodden bird. He had probably been swept in with the storm because at that time of year we did´nt see many raptors.

GETTING TO KNOW YOU:
When I took Simba out for his morning walk early the next day the day the bird was still sitting where he perched the night before & looked even more bedraggled in the cold grey light. I could see now that he was a hawk & a young one. As he stretched out his wings I could see that a couple of wing feathers were missing, probably due to the previous storm. As Simba & I walked along the river bank the bird flew into the air & followed us, hovering just above my head. He could fly but his flight was off balance & crooked. His wing didn’t look as though it was broken, which was a good thing. My mother had fixed many broken wings of a variety of birds when we had lived in Africa so I knew what I was looking for. It was obvious that this bird was very hungry, so when I got back home with a very wet dog & a wonky hawk in tow I decided that something had to be done. The bird went back to the roof of the house next door where he could watch our house. I found some pork chunks in the fridge, so I cut them into smaller pieces. I found a thick pair of welding gloves of my husband´s in the garage, & leaving Simba inside, I went out onto my balcony & put the meat on the balcony right opposite to where the bird was sitting. No sooner than I had put the meat down the bird flew straight at the meat, but because his flight was so unbalanced, he crashed into the windows stunning himself & falling to the ground.. I ran outside to pick him up but he has already managed to pull himself together & had flown up to his roosting place, eyeing the meat, but not daring to try again. So I took the meat & went out into a field next to our house. I whistled as I went, a special whistle, & held the meat over my head. The bird followed me, & when I got to the field he swooped down & took the meat from my hand. We repeated this a few more times until the meat was finished & I knew then that he would survive. I decided to call the bird Nelson, not as folk believed after Nelson Mandela because I had lived in South Africa, but after Admiral Nelson because he was such a regal bird. I had a standing order with the local butcher for scraps of meat & chicken on the bone. I told Simba that if he was a good dog he would also get his share so that he would not be jealous.

GETTING INTO A ROUTINE:
I got books on the raptors & how to train them, & I also phoned up specialists in England & Spain for advice. I did not want to catch, nor capture Nelson. I wanted him to be free, but I wanted to help him. Neighbours wanted to catch him & tried to tempt him with spicy Spanish sausage, but he would not go to them. Kids tried to stone him down out of the eucalyptus tree that he had adopted as his permanent roost. The radio stations & newspapers came to film him, but Nelson hid away from all cameras. He would only come to me & when I used “our” special whistle he would appear as if from nowhere. Simba was jealous, so I devised a system where I would take the meat & glove on our walks into the field by the river. I would bid Simba to “sit” under a tree, & then I would whistle to Nelson who would swoop down & take his meat up to his tree & eat it. After the bird got his food, I would give Simba a chunk of meat & he soon realized that if he obeyed & sat still until Nelson got his meat then he too would get a piece. Simba wasn´t stupid, he realized that it was in his interest to leave the bird in peace.

TIME PASSES:
Our routine was established, Nelson trusted me, Simba was on to a good thing with this new arrival & the bird started to look better. He fattened out & lost that bedraggled look & his flight started to right itself as his missing feathers started to grow again. Kids left the bird alone, the press went away & we were on our own. Wherever I went with my old faithful dog Nelson flew over me like a protector & people began to accept the fact that this strange foreign woman was probably a witch. Nelson started eating five times a day & he stayed near home in a very tall eucalyptus tree, he was free but safe. One day I threw Simba a ball with a rope attached to it & he ran to retrieve it, & as he picked up the ball in his mouth, Nelson flew down & picked up the rope in his beak & flew up pulling the ball with Simba attached to the other end. Simba weighed forty five kilos, no light weight, but he pulled down & Nelson pulled up & they had a tug of war between them. Simba always won in the end obviously because his weight was in his favour, but Nelson managed to pull hard enough to get Simba´s front half of his body lifted high enough to make me feel a little uneasy. This game because a favourite of both dog & bird. Simba had a habit of catching small little moles & low nesting birds. I know it is a natural instinct of hounds of this breed to do this but I always tried to discourage it because it made me sad for these creatures, but to no avail. One day he caught & killed a little bird & took it to Nelson´s tree & looked up at the big bird with his offering in his mouth & Nelson flew down & took the offering gently from Simba´s mouth. Simba did not resist, he had given his friend this gift. When Nelson had stripped the meat from the bird he gave the bones to Simba, who happily crunched them into oblivion. This act happened often too & trust between Simba & Nelson grew.

THE END:
Winter had ended after terrible weather, now Spring was in the air, longer balmy warm days appeared & Nelson looked magnificent. His feathers had grown back new & strong, he looked sturdy & healthy & he was no longer a straggly chick, he was a beautiful strong male ready to face the world. I had noticed a change in Nelson as the months passed. He went from feeding five times a day, to four, then three, two, & now once a day. This wasn’t forced upon him, it was just the way he wanted it. He had begun flying further away as he got stronger & I realized that he was probably hunting more on his own as his strength improved. If I went out & couldn´t see him, I would whistle & I would see a dot on the horizon, getting bigger as he neared, he always answered my call & not just for food. I could feel it in my soul that he was ready to go & it was a bitter-sweet feeling. I felt like a mother who had nurtured a son who was now ready to fly out into the big wide world. I was happy he had the freedom & had survived, but I was sad because I loved him dearly. I remember the last day well. Simba & I were on our walk by our river, with meat & glove, I whistled. That dot on the horizon materialized, but today, as it got nearer I thought I was seeing double. Nelson came closer, but today he had come with a mate, he had come to introduce his lady & to say farewell. It was Spring, mating time, breeding season, Nelson was a strong male hawk & he was ready. He & his lady flew into the eucalyptus tree & sat side by side watching Simba & I. I put my glove on, walked into the field so that Nelson would have enough room for flight with those magnificent wings. I held out my hand with the meat in it & down flew Nelson taking the meat & returning to the tree where his mate sat. He placed the meat on the branch between his powerful talons & tore it into three pieces. He placed a piece in the beak of his lady, he then dropped a piece to the ground where Simba sat drooling until he gulped it down, and then he ate the last piece himself. He had shared this last piece of meat with his friends. Nelson then plucked two of his feathers out from under his wings, & he & his lady flew out of the tree, up into the sky. They both flew down until they were just above my head & then flew around my head together three times, when Nelson let free the two feathers from his beak which landed at my feet, & which I still have. They then flew up into the sky & Nelson squawked his farewell & off they flew into the wild blue yonder, leaving me with tears running down my face, which Simba gently licked away.

Sunday 27 May 2012

ONE WHO GATHERS TRIBES:



She flies high with raven, hawk & wise old owl,
At night  prowls with the wolves & knows how to howl,
She spins with the spider her web of dreams,
Under starry nights, plotting new found schemes.

She is a very magical & special soul,
Friend to bison, deer & mole,
She roams prairies with beloved packs,
Seeking signs & tracing tracks.

She swims with salmon, & with eagle flies,
Talking to wolf, coyote & butterflies,
She loves hummingbird, bat, every bear & snake,
Who bow before her walking wake.

She is of stars, moon & desert sun,
You lady, belong to everyone,
She is summer, winter, fall & spring,
You lady, pray, chant, & eternally sing.

She raises arms & with ancestors dances,
To beating drum, her heart & soul prances,
She whose step echoes with resounding thud,
Raindrops encasing her feet in ancient mud.

She for who lightening strikes, flowers bloom, rivers flow,
People, like beasts, may come, but also go,
She whose Bloody history of her people gone,
Gather your tribes now, all & one.

She of the Red-Road –Dust & flowing rivers,
Of hot sun sweat, of moonlight shivers,
She, who in twilight shadows walks tall,
This lady gives to one & gives to all.

She gathers friends as she gathers flowers,
Brews magic herbs, bestows healing powers,
She, whose destiny in the dust inscribes,
To be the “ONE WHO GATHERS TRIBES.”

THE GIFT:



Give me not jewels, nor silver nor gold,
Nor travels to places hot, exotic, nor cold,
Give me no chain with pretty locket, nor ring,
Nor pearls dying upon alien string,
Cut me no flowers bleeding sore sap,
Nor place cute puppy upon my old lap,
Give me no oysters, champagne nor wine,
Nor table fit for Queen to dine.

Give me jewels of dew drops & rain,
Travel me through moons that wax & wane,
Smile me daily with sunny glee,
Touch me softly & tell me I´m free,
Sing me a song from days long gone,
Narrate a yarn that starts “once upon”,
These are the gifts I want from you,
Presents free & oh so true.

MAMA:



Mama, babe upon your shabby back, why?
Another mouth to feed on endless mielie-pap,
Papa, he goes down the mines of gold, for us to buy,
He comes back with little & “vol van die sap”, (in Afrikaans-drunk)

Ja, Papa works for the white baas, “voetsek & kom hier”, (in Afrikaans-get lost)
Mama, you work for the white madam, she dress so fine,
Mama, Papa needs the liquor, he´s tired & it dries his tear,
I play in the township dust, it´s cheaper than water, & it´s mine.

I am of this earth Mama, don´t cry, we´ll fight,
The kops, they come again Mama, I see it in your eye,
Blood dried upon your brow Mama, what´s right? What´s wrong?
Did you forget your pass-book Mama? Is that why?

My feet are as cold as the look on your face,
Mama is this life? For this do we live?
To school I go it´s true, but to learn of the white race,
As grains of sand, the fine sifts through, leaving the black behind.

My country, my continent, black, free & wild,
Tell me Mama, do you know to read & write?
I´m of here & proud, just a black human child,
One day I´ll take the babe off your back, & the pain from your sight.

Mama, your Papa, he died in jail, I know,
Your Mama of a broken heart, they say,
White men in suits say change must be slow,
Mama, it´s them that one day will dearly pay.

Bitter I´m not, violence I hate, my only grudge, a tight black skin,
Through the eyes of a child of the black folk, I see,
Mama, the world is not black, nor white, but of many colours, we´ll win,
One day Mama, you´ll shed your shabby back,
One day Mama, you will be free.

MANNERS MAKETH MAN:



Am I trapped in a mental time warp? I long for those hazy days when gentlemen were gentle men, holding doors open, doffing their hats, pulling out my chair, standing when I came into a room. Those misty memories of ladies wearing camisoles & cautious smiles, where a glimpse of a dainty, silver- buckled shoe, a turn of a delicate ankle was sufficient. Those expected actions of the youth standing on a bus, offering his seat to a lady, his smile to a baby, his help to an old person, & always with respect in his eyes instead of today’s smirk. Where, oh where are those days when the adage of my grandpa, "manners maketh man, my dear" meant something important to adhere to?. Women have come a long way, we have the vote, we have equal rights (only in some places), & we are stronger today than ever before, & for these things I am eternally grateful, & am eternally feminist, but I feel we have lost our greatest weapon, our biggest strength, our femininity, & without this we are lost. Let us recuperate this weapon of mass creation once more. We still have the glass ceiling to get through in many instances, & we are not any happier, more stressed than ever before, & we spend more time away from our greatest treasure, our children, how sad, & yet necessary today. Those magical days when children ran, played, got dirty & were innocent for longer, without having to look over their shoulder, because the bogey man in those days was only in the imagination, unlike today. Those days when we had no gadgets, only the wind on our faces to play with. Days when fathers told their sons stories of their boyhoods, long, long time ago, & sons listened rapt in attention. Those days when mothers cooked fresh food in bubbling pots, delicious aromas wafting around the home, instead of zapping unknown components called fast food. Days when families sat down & talked, laughed & loved. I used to be the sulky teenager, the rebel, the hippie of the 60s that my elders tutted at, & whispered about. Today I am a silver crone, & I yearn for lavender & old lace, tea dances & crinoline, croquet & crumpets by the fire. I care not what folk think, nor say. I rejoice in age & adhere to those wise words of my grandpa (here´s to you wise man, gentle man, gentleman) "manners maketh man my dear".

CANDY SOULED DAY:



This morning was a candy shop day. The clouds, sugar pink candy floss swirls, whirling across an royal icing sky that was hard, cold & brittle. The golden syrup sun melting & dripping into the minty cool sea, gloopy & cloying, making you want to dip your finger into the moulten liquid & lick its sweetness off your sticky fingers. The crisp ice-cream breeze freezing our cheeks as it cheekily kissed us in passing, on its way to the cranberry rock of Calpe, rosy in the distance, caressed by the rising sun. Sugar almond seagulls, tossed into the sweet morning by joy itself, dipping their wing tips into the briny converting saline breath into sweetness of life. Stiff, cold palm trees, green menthol lollipops, standing to attention, just waiting for the heat of day to loosen their arms. All before us was sweet & tempting & made us feel like children once again, with the burdens of adulthood lifted from our souls.

COASTLINE:



No bejeweled coastline today, no ermine ruffled shore, no royal blues, purples, pinks, reds & gold. Today was dressed in sober attire, pewter, grey, silver & white. a quiet coming down, a going within, a reflective, moody, meditative day, a day of quiet serene beauty, without the hurdy-gurdy blasting noisy colour of yesterday. Today is abashed at its drunken behaviour the day before, & is trying to make amends. it has a dignified beauty, difficult to ignore. This could be real love.

THERAPIES:


 The shell, the feather, the petal, the leaf, wind, breeze, rainbows, sun, moon, stars. Oh what a bounty of therapies abound have we at our fingertips. Close your eyes, & touch, feel, breathe, & sense. These are all therapies for the soul, so far removed from a bottle, box or packet....look around. Our sick & weary minds can fly free, let go. Feel that stone you picked up on the beach, cold & smoothe. Look up at that cloud above, floating just out of reach. Touch the moon beams, feel the sun´s rays, wink at the stars as they twinkle down upon you. Smell the slat of briny seas, run your fingers in mossy streams. Focus on the horizon & & know your dreams. We may need doctors, we may be healthy or ill, but whatever our health, we always feel better smiling at mountains & hills. Contemplate the silence & go within.
REALLY LOOK: at an egg, a perfect shape, the veins in a leaf, the bark of a tree. REALLY TASTE: rich chocolate, aromatic coffee, fruity red wine, the salty tears of joy. REALLY FEEL: your husband´s work-worn hand, your child´s velvet cheek, your dog´s silken head. REALLY LISTEN: to music, soft, deep, loud, fast, slow. Sing & dance, with someone, or even alone, it doesn’t matter.
REALLY READ: words, funny, poignant, daft, poetic, all words are valid. REALLY WEAR: colourful clothes, purple coat, red hat, yellow trews, feather & fun. If folk point & snigger, join in with them, it will give them courage to be like you. If you haven’t a mate, a lover, a friend, then make yourself that mate, lover, friend, because there shall be no better person to befriend than someone who understands that like you do. But remember, do not get down & feel lonely because if you look around you & know that you are connected to everything in this universe, you will see friends everywhere, & on your rambles through life know that your friends are the trees, birds, bunnies, butterflies, flowers. These are always friends, family & such good therapies, so smile & greet them on your way.

MORNING:



There is something so silent & still about a very cold morning. The ice sits & stares at me with glassy eyes, not interested in my response to their silent questioning. The spiteful air encases me in a tight embrace that nobody else sees, but i feel its hurtful vengeance. The sky is nonexistent in its vacancy, & the sun stays away, not wanting war. The trees hang their bald branches in frozen fear. Flowers weep their first spring-thought petals, & birds sing their silent songs within their feathered hearts, mute to the ears of those who know not how to hear.

CELTIC BLESSING: (NOT MINE.)





A CELTIC BLESSING FOR A NEW BABY:....... "A LITTLE DROP OF THE SKY, A LITTLE DROP OF THE LAND, A LITTLE DROP OF THE SEA, ON YOUR FOREHEAD, BELOVED ONE. TO PROTECT, TO SHIELD, & TO SURROUND YOU. THE LITTLE DROP OF THE THREE, TO FILL YOU WITH THE GRACES."

FANTASY:



Today I have a fantasy, to go to a big country mansion with sweeping lawns, beautiful fountains surrounded by big majestic trees. We are sitting at a beautifully laid table, beneath the shade of an old oak tree. There is a lovely trellised bandstand where a trio of musicians are playing softly in the background. The birds are singing in a sunshine that is just right, not too hot. There is a gentle breeze which brings with it the scents of jasmine, rose, lavender & orange blossom, wafting around us, embracing us in aromatic dreams. Bumble bees & colourful butterflies dip into fragrant blooms, whilst ruby & turquoise dragonflies skim the surface of the goldfish pond. It is a perfect day, & all of us are dressed in beautiful floral, floaty vintage dresses and big hats to shade our smiles. Tea is served by an elegant butler dressed in black & white. On the table are assorted cakes on a silver, ornate, tiered cake-stand, cucumber sandwiches daintily cut, & some of gentlemen´s relish for the more discerning. Freshly baked scones, still warm from the oven are also served with a flourish by our liveried waiter, with farm churned butter, home made strawberry jam & thick yellow clotted cream. Our tea arrived in the finest silver teapot & poured, rich, fragrant & hot, into vintage, lilac- sprigged cups. The day is perfect, & that´s why it is a fantasy. I do in fact sit in my humble flat clutching a chipped old mug filled to the brim with builders brew in one hand, & digestive biccy in the other. I have an old pair of leggings & a holey jumper on, it´s a grey day, & there is no butler, & no band, but wow, this tea tastes good, think I´ll have a top up.

CUBA:



As we get off the boat that has brought us to these warm palm-kissed shores, we can hear the wonderful Latin rhythms of the Carribean drifting over the pastel faded buildings that had seen better days. After walking through the old colourful streets, we make our way to the beach where we find a thatched chiringuito. We are served mojitios & empanadillas, while we feel the guava scented breeze caressing our cheeks, the same air that long ago slaves cursed on arriving to these shores, & still we can hear those ominous chains rattling on the shameful trade- winds that swirl around us. As night embraces dusk & becomes the territory of lovers, voodoo, sanatorias & dancers of Habaneras, we sway with Afro Spanish tunes. we howl with joy at the magical moon, smoke Havanan cigars rolled upon the thighs of nubile dusky maidens, & we are lost. Our night swirls & chants in heat, in colour, in hot Cuban beat, a locura that surely will never end, & we wonder if we will ever get out of this hurdy-gurdy vortex, but before we know it, the music gets softer the skirts stop flying, the drinks stop flowing, the sun appears on the horizon, red & taunting, & daylight hits us between the eyes. A wise old lady dressed in the rainbow, appears with steaming hot mugs of very black, very sweet tea, into which she pours a great dollop of very black Cuban rum. "This will chase the demons from inside your head", she tells us, & tea has never tasted so good.

Saturday 26 May 2012

BIRTHDAY TEA:



We are all here from our tea group, we are dressed in our finery of satins, velvets, silks & linens, in polka dots, florals & stripes. Upon our heads we are all wearing our tall Welsh hats, even the ladies who are not Welsh, today we are all Welsh, & our hats are not the traditional black, no, today we each have a hat of either, scarlet, purple, emerald, bold bright colours of defiance & liberation from all our feminine issues, because we are walking with a purpose, towards a celebration. We are singing, with red lippy lips & dancing shadowed eyes, smiling & joyous. We walk through the green valleys, our voices echoing in the surrounding hills. We come to a clearing where a long tressle table has been laid with the finest vintage china, the snowiest table cloth bedecked with shining silver. We sit down and feast our eyes on what is before us. There are breads of currant, lava, nutty seeds & more. There are baps, scones, tea cakes galore. The cream cakes in coffee, strawberry, lemon, chocolate, & too many to mention. Jams, conserves, fresh whipped cream, yellow churned butter, the aromas tantalising, our mouths watering. At the head of the table a magnificent cake, a birthday cake so beautifully made, encrusted in iced flowers & birds, swathed in sugar ribbons. On the top it had no candles, this a sign that the beholder of this piece de resistance is a lady of discreet age, a lady of mystery, & why not? it is her special day." Happy birthday," is delicately scribed upon the crystal sugared top, & a name, Stephanie. We have met up to celebrate your birthday today my dearest cousin, & we raise our cups of steaming tea & toast you. A VERY, VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU. The champagne will come later.

REMEMBERANCE:



It matters not, World wars 1 & 2, Boer war, Vietnam, Iraq, Afganistan, Civil wars all over the word, & a long list of etc´s, etc´s, etc´s. To our shame, & for whatever insane reasoning man gives for the excuse to go to war, it has been so since the beginning of time, so it´s about time we stopped. Today I am sitting in a field in Flanders, it is 1915, & the sun is rising. The steam from my cup of rich, sweet tea rises to meet the morning mists as I sit & remember every man, woman, child & animal whom have lost their lives to conflict, whether as soldier, or civilian, they are all heroes. The sun rises red on the horizon, & the swaying scarlet poppies wave in greeting, & in the breeze I hear the whisperings of long gone men. Here is a poem by John McCrae:
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; & in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid guns below

FARM:



Today I am going to visit a friend who lives on a farm called" Busy Nook", which is down a long lane, tucked into the corner of my mind. Her name is Fanny, or as she is better known, "Farmhouse Fanny". She is a widow & lives on this small farm alone, but never lonely, as she keeps telling folk, because she has friends that quack, oink & moo, & is followed around all day by gaggles of geese, waddling ducks, skipping lambkins & her faithful dog, old Jess. It is 4.am & I am walking through the cold Yorkshire morn to help Fanny with the chores. When I get to her little wooden door & knock she is already bustling around being busy. The sight of this lady always cheers me up. Her ample proportions under her crisp white pinny give her the aspect of a sailing boat in full sail, her smiling eyes are cornflowers, her cheeks are cherries, & her arms ever embracing. We milk the warm comfy cows & take them into the dew covered clover to graze, we feed ducks, geese, & lovely red-crested brown hens watching them scratch the soft earth while the cock lets us know a new day is born. The pigs are fed swill, & the lambs bleat with joy & jumping, in the surrounding fields. We churn butter, we dig up potatoes, collect warm eggs for our breakfast, we make crusty bread, & bottle fruit. The day is filled with busy hard work, laughter & all things good, & when we have a break we sit in the aga-warmed farm kitchen eating home cured bacon butties & drink hot Yorkshire tea, old Jess at our feet, & peace within us, & I realise we all want to a little bit like "Farmhouse Fanny".