Take care what you fish for - a song arising from the July workshop - by Ann Reader

The light dances on the clear water 

But hidden depths often deceive 

The fishing fly that might have caught her

Is tangled up fast in the reeds

The fisherman holding on tight to his line

Bemoans the loss of his trout

Shimmering scales transformation sublime 

A beautiful maiden climbs out.

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

He tries but he can not forget her

Daily he’s back at that place

Gazing steadfast at the water

Hoping to see her fair face

So many visits but still there’s no sign

He doubts the truth of his eyes 

So he returns with his rod and his line

And casts with the best of his flies 

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

The beautiful trout leaps up high 

Her ripples and rings spreading wide

Once more he loses his fly

But the maiden is there at his side

You dream of me like I’m a lover to you 

Oh yes that is true he replied 

Yet you would kill me, my family too

And yet give no care how we died

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

If you want me then you must come with me 

To visit the world where I dwell 

Besotted he begs her “forgive me”

He’ll go he is under her spell

He takes her hand with no thought or care

And follows her into the brook 

Trapped in the reeds he cannot breathe there 

He’s caught like a fish on a hook

Take care what you fish for Take care what you fish for

I guard every river and stream

If you upset me, you’ll wish you’d not met me. 

Was it her voice or a dream?

If you upset me, you’ll wish you’d not met me

Her haunting voice was not a dream

The Promise by Ann Reader

Crash! The clatter of the letter box a small card on the floor.  Megan read the note then she read it again. How could anything so short and beautifully written be so hurtful. 

It doesn’t take much to break a promise Megan realised this, but surely something so momentous should have taken more words. A gentle build up? A “sorry to disappoint” an explanation perhaps?

“I won’t be coming “screamed at her in Mark’s beautiful handwriting, and nothing else it was so harsh. Not even “sorry I can’t make it” to imply the broken promise was beyond his control. No softening of the message at all. Megan could not deny her disappointment and hurt. Her eyes pricked with tears as she read the note again searching for something that was clearly missing.  Some reason for his breaking his Promise that did not somehow make her feel that she was to blame.

She went back into the kitchen and put the kettle on, resisting the urge to have a good cry she viewed the situation as dispassionately as she could. Of course she was not to blame.  It was typically Mark, a game he would play to make her feel that she was somehow to blame for something, so he had an excuse to go off and do something he  wanted to do that did not involve her. Looking back over the 3 or so years they had been together Megan could see a pattern emerging. It was not the first time he had done this.  Doubtless he would ring on Sunday night to make sure she would be available the following weekend.  The terse note was to make sure he couldn’t be questioned about why he was not coming.  She knew from past experience that he would not answer if she phoned him.

It suddenly occurred to her that she would not be available next weekend.  The very thought carried such a feeling of relief and freedom that she felt quite breathless.  Yes, she could do that.  She recalled that her friend Mary had suggested they go to see a band they both liked in Chester.  It would be a long drive home and Mary had found a reasonably priced b&b on the outskirts of the city.  Megan had been noncommittal in case Mark was available. 

 Megan had been seeing Mark almost every other weekend for the last three years.  He lived and worked in London and always came to Shropshire for their meetings.  He said it was because the countryside was more beautiful, but she was beginning to think he was married or at least living with someone .  She thought of all the things she had missed out on to leave herself free in case he came. She realised that she did not care if it was because he was married or whether it was just that he wanted to control her.  She was not going to be controlled any longer. 

She rang Mary and was overjoyed when she found her friend had not got anyone else to take her place.  “We could go up early if you like,” she found herself suggesting, “have a day exploring the city before the gig.”  It didn’t take Mary long to work out that something about Megan had changed. 

“Have you finally finished with that secretive bloke you never let us meet?” she asked. 

“Do you know I believe I have although I haven’t told him yet.”

“Thank God for that! All he did was make you miserable!  Does that mean you’re free to come out tonight?”

“I suppose I am,” Megan replied. 

“Great. Be ready at 7.30. Karen, Isabelle and I are getting a taxi to Shrewsbury.  We’re going to try out that new club everyone is talking about, but we’ll have a few drinks in our usual haunts first. I know they’d love you to join us it’d be like old times again. Can you do it?”

“Yes, yes I can.”

Megan rushed up to change realising she felt more excited about going out with her friends than she had felt recently anticipating Mark’s arrival. She took care of how she dressed, although they were starting off in familiar haunts, it was so long since Megan had been out without Mark that it was something of a new experience and they were finishing up at a new venue completely. 

Megan heard the taxi draw up outside, she ran lightly down the stairs checked her appearance in the hall mirror and went out to have a new adventure.

Finding Dawid by Elizabeth Obadina

          From her vantage point above Waterloo Terrace, Jean could see and hear everything going on. She opened her bedroom window as far as it would go. She wanted to soak up and remember every minute of today. This was history in the making, a special day for all the allied nations, a special day for the country and the town and an extra special day for Jean. For today, the day that peace was declared, Jean and Dawid had decided to make their engagement public and face and overcome whatever objections her parents, well her father really, wanted to put in their way. 

        Maybe there wouldn’t be any, Jean thought. Today was a day to melt the hardest of hearts. Perhaps her father would forget for a moment that Dawid was a foreigner and see him as the hero he was who had fought as much and as hard as any British soldier, sailor or airman to end this war and for freedom.

          Jean scanned the crowd for his familiar face.

My True Love by Kay Yendole

 

You came to me in dreams of yesterdays

Always with open arms and loving ways

It seems my life is not complete unless

You’re by my side lighting my life with wonderness

 

Everywhere I go reminds me of you

You are entwined in everything I do.

It seems you are always on my mind

There is no greater love that I could find.

 

The future with you is a blaze of light

And like the ‘Tiger burning bright’

I’ll always hold this passion here for you

A love that is pure and true.

When Winter leaves Chelmarsh by Irena Szirtes

 Do I alone mourn Winter when we welcome in the Spring?

     I miss jackdaw fly-bys at dusk;

     Dawn-black trees, against seared sky

     Like pathways in a brain,

     And sheep's breath, soft-blown

     To air so fierce it soaks my bones

     Like dry desolate water.

     I miss leaves staring from ice 

     Like Millais' Ophelia, open-eyed,

     Wordless in water, disturbing me

     When I was small;

     And sky-sloughed cloud,

     Melting gravestones, conjuring 

     Vicarage turrets little by little,

     Painting its own gothic novel.

     I miss starched sunflowers,

     Rank upon rank, like spindly statues 

     Guarding their commander's tomb,

     As birdsong drills the cold,

     Prickling and puncturing my ears.

     I miss the starting victory 

     Of sudden winter sun,

     Firing light-shocks through 

     Tangles of dark branches,

     And winds, worrying and whistling

    At the Bull's Head door.

    But then I see catkins braving 

    Bare stems, and tiny buds tight-shut.

    Snowdrops flitter in a slicing breeze,

    Lambs suckle, afterbirths shrivel,

And I'll be mourning Winter, while welcoming the Spring.

(first published 2023)

Goldilocks Mother by Elizabeth 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)

My Other Love by Jennie Hart

How I love my garden

So fresh and pure

Damp dew lies on petals

I bend to its allure.

Slight movements nudge the cobwebs,

Seed heads tussle,

Thorns and flowers tangle

Leaves and grasses rustle.

Cobalt blue is heady,

True blues are rare,

Evening light enhances

This colour vibrant there.

Yellows are iridescent

And white glows too,

As night takes over dusk,

All colours fade from view.

My favourite time is morning,

Those early hours

Nothing transcends the beauty

The sacredness of flowers.

My First Love by Jennie Hart

credit: Jide Obadina

Dancing is my first love

The whirl and spin,

I yield to its embrace,

Whatever mood I’m in!

I hear the music swinging,

I feel the beat,

My movements claim the floor,

I can’t control my feet!

Fine jazz from Benny Goodman

And Lester Young,

Glen Miller’s ‘In The Mood’,

Their names drip off my tongue.

Move to the syncopation,

Steps quick and slow,

Music loud and mellow,

I hear the rhythm flow.

Dancers are always smiling,

Light-hearted set,

So much pain in this world

But briefly we forget.

Charged Emotions by Adam Rutter

Cara wondered aimlessly through fields of heather on The Long Mynd. Cara’s auburn hair blew across her face. Her white skirt flapped around her feet and she held onto a thin arm loosely with her slender hand while her dark eyes gazed mournfully down at Church Stretton. Cara’s walk slowed to a saunter until she could not walk no more. Her tears reddened the edge of her eyes with every tear being blown round the side of her face. Cara could not face Jack again, no matter how much she wanted to see him, she could not stand the thought of being hurt a second time, in spite of his undying love for her, she knew he will betray her. The grey skies grew darker and blacker as clouds cast heavy shadows over the hills and valleys. Thunder rumbled overhead. A raindrop landed on her cheek, she watched Church Stretton fade in the shadows until it became obscured, like her feelings for Jack. She searched relentlessly for her feelings, and then she stopped searching. A flash of lightning glimmered on her face, accentuating her fair skin against the dimmest light. The rain pattered on the heather, Cara sobbed as her hurt and anguish rumbled inside like the thunder, and tears flowed with the rain as they ran off her face. Jack was cantering on his horse when he arrived in the town after he came back from Shrewsbury. His eyes caught sight of Cara’s figure silhouetted against sheet lightning flickering in the clouds.

‘Cara!’ he cried.

The rain began to pour down. Jack galloped out of town, through the narrow valley of Cardingmill. Cara heard Jack’s voice rising from the valley. His voice was unrecognisable among the thunderclap and the rain lashing down, but she knew it had to be him. She held onto her drenched skirt while she struggled to run among the heather.

The Shadow by Geoff Speechly

credit Gencraft

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)

Lancashire Landing by Kath Norgrove

Gallipoli military cemetery                                                                                Photo: Kath Norgrove

The sun was warm and already hazy. Before us stretched the end of the Gallipoli peninsular; scrub made way for trees and in the far distance we could make out sandy beaches. We had arrived at the southern end, where on 25th April 1915, British and Allied soldiers came ashore during the World War I Gallipoli Campaign. The peninsular was beautiful and peaceful now, a far cry from the horror nearly a century ago.

We visited a Turkish Cemetery, with rows upon rows of white headstones embedded with glass panels, on either side of which were names of 18 of the fallen. As if to shade these silent sentries, trees were interspersed amongst them, casting a cool air over the 70,000 souls buried there.

The nearby Cape Helles Memorial glared white against the deep blue sky. On it were names of Royal Navy battleships and military Corps that had participated in the Allied landings. British losses are less well known but British troops suffered with approx 220,000 casualties during the equally futile Helles landings.

The steep descent to “W” (Lancashire Landing) Beach, on the west of Cape Helles, was overhung with a thick green canopy of Turkish firs. Named after the battalion of Lancashire Fusiliers who landed here, our interest was with the Worcestershire Regiment who supported them. The rocky water’s edge became an idyllic white sandy beach, the remains of a small boat still partly buried, with the jagged iron edges protruding through the sand like teeth in a gaping mouth. Immersed now in serenity, the beach did not betray the horror and bloodshed that it beheld all those years ago.

Located 500 metres inland, the grey entrance of the Lancashire Landing Cemetery reflected a sombre mood but inside it was immaculately kept; the grass clipped short and tasteful bushes and flowers distributed between the rows of small white squat memorial stones. Surrounded by trees with birds singing, in peace and tranquillity, 1300 faced towards the beach.

We sought one in particular, Private Albert Hill of the Worcestershire Regiment, who died in June 1915 aged 30. My Mum had seen his name on a war memorial at home, but the family never spoke of him or his death.

“It's Row B”, she trailed off; there it was, his stone, weathered but blinding in the midday sun.

“Hello, Granddad”, she said.

(first published August 2020)

Foolish Valentine by Elizabeth Obadina

In the Hightown Writers Workshop we often begin our meetings with a 'word maze' exercise.  In this particular meeting we had to make what we would from the words:  slushy, precipice, delectable, cloud and juicy. 

Foolish Valentine

Delectable Delilah was what Jonas had always called Deidre, the buxom barmaid of the Crown and Anchor where Jenny and Jonas met up each evening after work. Its cosy half timbered inglenooks and two roaring fires provided shelter these dismal February evenings: shelter from the grey clouds, the grey slush and the grey buildings which lowered like granite precipices on both sides of the street. The cheerful pub also provided shelter from the juicy gossip mill of the office.

Jenny had recruited Jonas as her assistant to ease her workload as her department grew from strength to strength. She wanted her Man Friday and he had become all that - and more.

Tonight was 14^th February, the day for lovers. Jonas had ‘magicked’ a bouquet of red roses for Jenny as they sat down for their evening drink and Jenny felt an unfamiliar frisson of anticipation. She was flattered, a little grateful and a little surprised, but not unprepared. In her case was a little something for Jonas. She reached for it but as she bent forward she caught an unmistakable look of love exchange between Delectable Delilah and Jonas.

No fool like an old fool thought Jenny and left the little something where it lay. No wonder Jonas always insisted she left for home first … to avoid gossip he said.

No wonder …

3^rd February 2015

Midsummer's Day at Morville by Val Pedrick (for John)

they found a sacred place there; cool, white columns embrace,

heart-leaved mulberries shade; ‘proud Titania’ may have played

by an ancient tree – a still canal reflects – what will

await; unsought, sweet, unfathomable thoughts

in a garden of delights, two lovers, hidden from sight;

foxgloved fingers caress, playful lips press

incensed with passion, elated emotion,

caught unawares, carried beyond earthly cares, where

midsummer sun swags fragrant rose bowers

pale bell-flowers whisper through timeless hours

mutual ecstasies found, their universe becomes unbound

in a confusing maze of known, yet unknown, ways

the Temple of the Hours weaves its magic spell

in a garden, as in true love, time does tell …

(2018) 

Such Cruel Fate by Stuart Gough

Sir Richard Pembridge - died 1375 - tomb Hereford Cathedral

Sir Richard Pembridge KG (died 1375) sat in front of the fire and mourned his dear Elizabeth. He’d always loved her. He loved her when they were children, before she had met his friend Edmund. They were both of local stock. He remembered with some pain as to how her eyelids did flutter so, when in the presence of Edmund. He remembered her in many ways. He knew her as the beautiful young girl of his youth, as the wife and widow of his friend and then as a woman widowed for a second time. His final memory was that of her as the graceful woman that had become his lover, his wife and the mother of his son. She had known their only son for just two short years, before her own passing. A life taken too soon and not without its share of sorrow along the way.

He remembered his old friend Edmund St John who had died at the Siege of Calais in the year of our Lord 1347. He’d promised his friend that he would take care of Elizabeth. He tried to shake off the guilt he felt for his own life, whilst so many others had lost theirs. She’d married Gerard de Lisle, before his return from France.  He never blamed her for that. Gerard was a reasonable but slightly dull, man. He and Elizabeth did however, share their own guilt. Their old friendship and memories of fonder times had been hard to contain. By Elizabeth he had one son, Henry. Most accepted the notion that the boy was delivered early and by the good grace of God alone, survived that ordeal. He knew some didn’t, as the boy was born in the same year of Gerard’s death. Their love was just, he told himself uneasily. ‘Twas born innocently from an oath taken in battle and before the sight of God’. He told himself, yet remained nervously unconvinced as to his own reasoning.

He mourned his son.

Love by Jennie Hart

I may say I love a painting, a film or a book,

I may say I love the clothes you wear, the way you look,

I may rave about the blueness in a bluebell

Or the colour of the darkest, reddest flame.

I may rave about a meal I ate, or a good red wine,

But the love I feel for you is not the same.

To gain such love a person must be thoughtful

Unselfish, caring, giving, warm and kind.

‘What?’ you say, ’Impossible aspirations!’

But both must aim at these for love to find.

Love for another person is a sacred thing,

Existing in your head, your soul, your heart,

It may come within a moment or it may take years,

Love cannot be one-sided, both must play a part.

Love makes huge demands. It seems unreasonable

What one must do to gain love from another,

But to give without condition is the secret

For a person to be loved and be a lover.

(first published 10th February 2021)

What is Love? by Marie Sever

What is Love?

The dictionaries provide various definitions of Love:

An intense feeling of deep affection for someone; a great interest and pleasure in something.

What do I love?

My family, who are wonderful most of the time and maddening at others. I’m sure they feel the same way about me.

My friends who, as many have experienced, can only be seen over Zoom at present, but were there for me when my first husband died, and helped my daughter and me through a dreadful period.

Giving presents to people, carefully thought through and hoping I got it right, and receiving presents, many of which I can’t use, but smiling, saying thank you and donating to a charity shop. Love is not wanting to hurt their feelings.

My various pets over the years, despite my dog once eating one of the leather boots that I had saved up for months after recently starting work; the beautiful Siamese cats – mother and son - who would yowl in the middle of the night until we let them in because they wanted to come into our bedroom to tell us how much they loved us; my tortoises who kept escaping, the female never to return, and the male, Kevin, who came out of hibernation two days ago and is mowing down my crocuses and snowdrops as he insisted on coming out from his heat lamp to wander the garden in the sun.

The winter sun on a cold day, warming my face and giving a hint of better weather to come.

The first yellow flowers on my Hamamelis – aka Witch Hazel – that started flowering before Christmas and can still be seen through the sitting room window, followed by early daffodils, snowdrops and crocus, all heralding Spring.

Rain after a long period of dry weather, meaning I don’t have to spend hours watering our sandy soil.

All these appear to be insular, however I love to read in the media of kindness delivered by strangers to strangers. I adhere to the Random Acts of Kindness concept, and have done so from time to time. That makes me happy.

Love and happiness should go hand in hand. Done right, love towards others will result in happiness on both sides.

(first published during the Covid Lockdown: 26th February 2021)

Person with beard by Suzie Pearson

A love poem

believe it or not.

To ‘person with beard’

(or so alt text says).

A solid presence

A grumpy sod

A giggling school boy

(at least when cartoons are on)

A great cook

A being much tidier than me

A considerate soul.

Our child named you Beard Face.

And why not?

Love you, Beard Face

First appeared on my website: https://wordsfromanotebook.com/person-with-beard/

Heart Problems by Kay Yendole

 The only problems of the heart I fear,

Are heartache and the pain that's here,

Within my heart now as we speak.

Will it ever go away? This aching heart,

That twists and turns since we did part,

As if a dagger has been plunged there,

To remind me you are somewhere,

Waiting for me, week on week,

To join you on the other side,

To leave this mortal coil aside

And float above,

To meet my love.

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

Pebble Myth by Kay Yendole

Is it a myth that penguins give their partners pebbles from the beach?

They search for the smoothest pebble perfect stone,

To give to their intended as a symbol of their love.

You did that too each time we visited a shore.

You scoured the sands to find the perfect rock for me.

And I in turn would do the same for you

A ritual we instinctively felt.

A necessary task to seal our love.

We’d take them home to our own nest.

From foreign shores around the world

And label them with places we had been.

They fill our home with solid memories

Of treasured times.

A myth maybe but fact that you my love

Are my perfect pebble rock.

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

Looking Ahead Through February With Love

 After our lovely last get-together of January 2025 - our annual meal at Peepo's attended by 14 of us - I realised two things:

1. I'd forgotten to take a photograph of us all :(

and

2. For the first time ever the blog was completely blank for February.

so

Whilst we pause, reflect and flex our writing muscles for a great year of authorship ahead, I thought it would be nice to look back on some of our older pieces of writing all on the theme of love. Many of you will not have read these before and most of us will enjoy revisiting pieces from the past.

ENJOY!

Our next full meeting will be in the Spirit Room at Peepo's, at 7pm on Tuesday 25th February.

The writing theme is:

‘Choose any book. Turn to Chapter 5. Open the 5th page of Ch5 and count down to the 5th line. Use that line/sentence as your writing prompt.’