The Shadow by Geoffrey Speechly (1930 - 2021)

We remember with sadness the passing of Geoff, our friend and a founding member of Hightown Writers' Workshop, who passed away three years ago today. He brought a lot of fun to our meetings and we have missed him. He spent much of his working life trading with the Soviet Union and was acutely politically conscious. We repost today one of his social reflections which feels particularly apt for these troubled times.

Dark is the shadow on my baby’s face

As I look at her in this awful place.

The soldiers broke the bedroom door

And smashed our lives; blood on the floor

Is the only carpet we have left; no, not we, but I-

For they took my man, and said they’d try

Him as a terrorist; he, who’d never raise

His voice much less his arm in anything but praise

For friends and peace. The shadow on her little cheek

Is red; she is so tiny and so weak…

I hear her feeble breath and mine begins to falter

Oh, I love her so much, my man-bloodied daughter,

And pray, with all my failing strength

That God may grant respite throughout the length

Of our poor country, and if we have to die

Let it be for freedom that we cry.

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

(This post first published on 16 March 2022)

Remembrance - A New Door Opens by Kay Yendole

'Death opens a door for those left behind'

Some profound quote, by I don't know who, that sticks in my mind.

A door closes behind you, you can't go back.

Tread forward even if you feel life has ended for you.

To give in to grief is the coward's way.

A new life is what you must find

 and so I force myself to face the day,

begin new paths to follow and walk again.

And on the road I meet new friends,

but all the while I feel a ghost beside me is walking.

Like a shadow he is stalking.

Not threatening but guiding me, safely across the road.

His love has not died, it will stay with me forever.

I remember things randomly from the past.

Of things we shared and did together.

A scent, a waft of sandalwood and musk.

I hear a voice across the room that sounds like him.

I see in the distance a familiar stance,

a walk like his, with that certain stride.

Is it him per chance?

 of course not, just my mind playing tricks on me.

Memories flood back into my mind, without reason or connection to the present.

A phrase, an action, a view, non- related just a scattered picture of times so pleasant.

Not sad. Sometimes I even giggle or laugh out loud

until I catch the bewildered look on other's faces  in the crowd

questioning my motivation.

He is beside me now.

Aren't you my love?

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

London Spring by Geoffrey Speechly

February over London. View from The Shard                                                        Photo: Liz Obadina

Willows are weeping in Wimbledon 

Hedges are blooming in Bow

Cars are quite spotless in Richmond

And the ladies are back in Soho.

Dustbins waft perfume in Cricklewood

Crisp-papers quite perk up the Strand

The Green grows bacilli in Twickenham

And litter envelopes the land.

In St. James’s the tourists stroll silent

Amazed at the style of the place

In the City the brokers from Surrey and Kent

Trade at an incredible pace.

In Buck House the sovereign takes tea there

With napery fine and cups gold

She sips and she ponders and I’m quite sure she wonders

If she’ll still be our Queen when she’s old.

From Stanmore to Barking the sparrows are larking

For the Spring has returned once again

And all over the region smiles are many and legion

As we welcome the sun and the rain.

(first published in 2016 Book of Delights)

Valentine – a history of social economics by Geoffrey Speechly

   

Photo: Liz Obadina

It was the 14^th of Fevrier 486 AD in the Massif Central of France, a region mountainous and rich in rivers and streams. In its very heart lay two ridges of steep hills, known to the locals as the Tines for their similarity to the tines of the eating forks which had just come into fashion as civilisation or more properly urbanisation crept into the light of day. Between them ran a pure stream, almost a river, serving all the needs of the Society of the Mountains, nearly forty people, men, women and children, both Franks and Celts.

Where Once Was A Priory by Jennie Hart

Morville, Bridgnorth                                                                                          Photo: Liz Obadina

Like frosted pearls on lichened branches

Swelling buds reflect the morning light,

Careful to conceal their mystic contents

Of petals, stamens, stigma, all coiled tight.



Autumn’s crop of desiccated fruit

On shivering earth lies strewn around,

Adorned with early morning beads of dew,

Like Christmas baubles, on the icy ground.



Great woodpecker tapping with his bill,

Plays percussion on the old pear tree,

A tuneful robin – soloist - joins in,

Melodious songster she is proved to be.



An abandoned snail shell lies forlorn

Alongside a green moss-coated stone,

Did a thrush dine on this tiny mollusc

Sheltering in its ochre- banded home?



Memories of a priory lie beneath

Where Lenten roses bend in conversation,

Like ancient monks expounding their belief,

They nod and stir in quiet contemplation.

 

Lightly tread on silver frosted grass,

Heavy steps may crush each tender blade,

Snowdrops seeking light, bring hints of spring

Earth soon will warm; traces of winter fade

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

 

Goldilocks Mother by Elizabeth Obadina

Winter Woods                                                                                                       Photo: Liz Obadina
The door slammed shut

With sound and fury

Rattling windows in their frames.



A gulf of silence

Swallowed the angry words,

Swallowed the I-hate-you-s

And love grew worried.



The silence grew

Filling corners

And her chair

And her hiding place under the stair

And love waited



Until

Plucking a lantern

From a hook on the wall

And wrapping a cloak tight

Over her shawl,

Love ventured out



Into the winter woods

Where the bears roamed wild

And the winds whined,

After the child

Who had stormed away

Stamping

And refusing to eat

The porridge that

Love set before her.

28^th July 2015

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)