Our Day out at Wigmore Abbey - a memory explored at the 'Do The Write Thing' Workshop - by Adam Rutter

credit Adam Rutter

Mum, Dad and me visited Wigmore Abbey

Home of the actor John Challis

We knew him as Boycie

In the TV sitcom

Only Fools and Horses His house

In rural Herefordshire September 2003

Last day for summer sun

Large wrap around green

Encircled the house

People wandered leisurely

Admired flowers

Chatted with John

Market traders sold plants

Collecting proceeds for Red Cross

‘Della would’ve like it here,’ said Mum

I was happy to be there Sad that Della wasn’t alive to enjoy it

Crowds gathered round

For photos and autographs

Dressed in my captain Jean Luc Picard T-shirt

‘You can’t come here with another actor,’ said John

Pretending to draw hair and moustache

With his felt-tip

He stood behind us being Boycie

Camera button clicked

The Kite by Irena Szirtes

 

I was his little girl;

I was his laughter,  speaking

‘Lily of the Lavvie’ before

I knew I meant ‘Valley’;

I was his laughter,

Insisting on my ‘Lizzie Hat’,

Calling my doll ‘Gaitey’,

Imitating foghorns,

Saying ‘gongits’, my sister’s word

For iron-work on roof corners.

His words were laughter, too:

He called sleet ‘snizzle’, how

Easy to mix snow and drizzle

When English is new.

We stored, stirred, reconstituted laughter:

Often remembered the man

Who skiddled down Winder,

Sliding the scree, flailing,

Raising his hat as he racketed past,

Pretending all was well!

He let laughter explode through

His whisper,  let it ambush us:

‘Let’s wait!” he said, and how

We relished shared naughtiness

When the show-off lady plunked off the weir

Stilettos flying, her yellow blouse and

Vermilion skirt billowing, bouffant,

Like pirate sails in the Rawthey!

I was his little girl, his laughter,

So when I lost the kite he made,

When I flew it alone In disobedience,

When it snagged a tree-top,

When it flailed and flapped

Like seagull wings stricken In wire,

 I was afraid to tell.

And three days after the kite

Died impaled,  shreds blowing

And blinking from summer sun,

I came down for breakfast

When I knew he’d gone to work,

When I knew disappointment

Had walked out the door.

And then I saw a new-built kite.

It stood sharp and shiny,

As white and red and ribboned

As a Polish flag, and I knew

I was still his laughter,

Still his little girl.  

Dad's Summer Holiday by Jennie Hart

Throughout my life with my parents, I do not remember a family holiday. Mum owned a shop selling groceries and sweets, open every day of the year except Christmas Day. She was a hard worker and only when I was old enough to manage the shop in the school holidays, did mum take a break with her mother, my grandma.

My dad was not the kind of person who ever went on holiday; he was small in stature and elegant, a working-class man who also enjoyed life’s luxuries. He dressed in suits from Austin Reed and bought Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes with their dull black covering and exotic gold tips. He was especially fond of Glenfiddich scotch whiskey. Sometimes he told of memorable experiences when he was stationed in Gibraltar during the war. Once, having watched his army pals swim in the island’s harbour, he was envious of the fun they were having, so jumped in, off the harbour wall too. He couldn’t swim and nearly drowned but was fortunate to be rescued.

Throughout my life, dad was nervous and a little unworldly; he rarely travelled far from home. A day out for him was taking the bus or train to Kingston upon Hull, twenty miles away. It was therefore a surprise one particular summer when dad announced he would go on holiday to Coventry to stay with brother Cyril.

Summer by Adam Rutter

The Italian Garden, Arley Arboretum.           credit Adam Rutter

People throng Stonehenge

Watching the sun cut between solid blocks

Rising above circle

Rectangular shadows stretched out on grassy plains

Days grow longer

Corn fields glow gold as sun

Sun baked land warms air

Lifting Buzzards

Open wings float on heat

Wheeling on warm columns

Patchwork of crops ploughing

Embroider the countryside

Trees, an umbrella of shade

Cooling people, pets swim in pools, rivers feel refreshingly cool

Water fountain fans out

Like a lily

Droplets fall onto the pool

Unfolding petal-like shapes

In Italian garden

Splashes of colour fill flower beds

Climbing tiered fountain

Cascading onto flower shaped bowls 

The Tree Swing by Elizabeth Henry

illustration: Delphine Woods

I made a gaudy tree swing in a bosky garden glade

From rope and wood and scraps of toile, with scissors and a blade.

I dangled my concoction from an old and knobbly tree,

Between a pink clematis and a sweet mint Kolibri.

 

I sat in it and twizzled it and swayed it to and fro’.

I spun it rather speedily and then I made it slow.

I read in it, then lay in it and had a little doze

Amidst the cheery sparrows and a rambling yellow rose.

 

I used it as a sanctuary to hide from rowdy crowds,

Unwinding ‘neath the dappled shade, whilst gazing at the clouds.

I scrawled a composition as I jiggled in the breeze:

A song about a ladybug, a beetle and some bees.

 

I had a celebration on a fine midsummer’s night,

With streamers, flags and bunting and a bonfire burning bright.

I lounged inside my saggy swing and watched the wine cascade,

Content to be secluded from the raucous cavalcade.

 

But then I left it hanging in the brume and in the snow,

And after countless bouts of rain the mould began to grow.

The clothe went black and dotty and expelled a putrid smell.

No longer was my gaudy swing a pleasant place to dwell.

Worcestershire Village by Adam Rutter

credit Adam Rutter

Narrow road winds through Wyre Forest

Hugs trees

Twists past fields, crops

Slopes down to

Worcestershire village

From humpback bridge

Railway station

Yellow brick building

Chimney pots above waiting room and house

Bay window juts out to station platform

Canopy holds hanging baskets

Steam train shoots out of GWR poster

By the open gate, telephone Kiosk

Semaphore signal, horizontal

Road slides past Harbour Inn

Descends towards River Severn

Across the footbridge

Oarsman, oarswoman, canoeist ride water currents

Young men swim shallow waters

Ducks flank the riverside

Shop cum post office huddles with cottage and café

On the other side

Courtyard arranged with chairs and tables

Sit, watch Severn drifting by 

Ode to Pool Boy by Jennie Hart

 Pool Boy! Brown Pool Boy!

From where did you come

Like an exotic bird

Did you fly from the sun?

 

Your body was lean

And your look was so cool

Your expression intent

As you tended the pool

 

Are we sharing you Pool Boy

Or are you all ours

Clean only our filters

Of our pool decked with flowers?

 

My friends long to see you

Catch only a glimpse

As you speed by the chateau

I’ve not seen you since!

 

Like a Will O’ the Wisp

So nimbly you sped

Cleared the bees and the insects

Caught anything dead!

 

But soon we are leaving

Do you plan to come soon

Streak by like a comet

In the gaze of the moon?

 

So ‘au revoir’, Pool Boy

Hope soon you’ll be seen

Dipping olively bronzed

In our pristine piscine!

Château Burée

August 2024

Sounds of Summer by Suzie Pearson

It’s here at last Time to tilt up the chin Close the eyes Breathe in scents of freshly cut grass, the fragrance of an emerging bloom, lunches taken outside The auditory canal waiting  for the sweet song of Mother Nature

The roar and buzz of the mower The whine and crackle of the strimmer The clanking and crashing of plates Shouts and screams of the kids next door Shouts and screams of their parents Their argument captivating a neighbourhood.  An incessant cacophony of engines, out to impress Pumping, bass heavy tunes Not my choice of a soundtrack for summer

Desperately jamming in the earphones Finding a soothing track with bird song, and babbling brooks, and a gentle breeze

Hoping that underneath it all, there is a still the whisper of summer

first published on wordsfromanotebook.com/sounds-of-summer

Tea? I don't think so by Elaine Pearson

Someone bought me a cup and saucer

But I don’t think I’ll use it to sup

It’s really very heavy

I can hardly pick it up

 

I could fill it full of red wine

And drink it through a straw

But I think by the time it was empty

I’d be laid out cold on the floor

 

So I’ll use it as a planter

On me patio out in the sun

I’ll enjoy it at me leisure

While sitting outside on me bum.

 

I’ll fill it to the brim with pansies

Geraniums pink and white

It’ll grace my garden all summer

Oh, what a beautiful sight

 

Then when the flowers are finished

I’ve found another use

Somewhere to put me grandson

So he isn’t running loose! 

What is Summer Ma? Story and Sonnet by Elizabeth Obadina

The day had to be the hottest yet. Every September seemed to bring an end to the cooling July and August rains and usher in hot, sunny days just as the compound gates swung open for the new school year. The new English teacher was sweltering and faced with her new Class Nine pupils. They were being groomed for examinations set by a far away English examination board and, in an attempt to boost their chances, the Head of English, Mrs Osoba, had given the class to the school’s newest recruit, a young woman fresh from teaching English in Essex to English pupils.

The Class Nine pupils were delighted. They were being taught by a real Englishwoman and the only ‘oyinbo’* amongst the nearly thousand City High School staff and students thronging the dusty buildings. They had taken on board that the formidable Mrs Osoba called the new teacher ‘my wife’ and correctly guessed that she must have married into a Nigerian family. They wouldn’t mess with her.

The young teacher had jumped when a little lad by the classroom door banged his desk lid sharply down as she entered the room. It was a signal for everyone to leap to their feet and chant ‘Good Morning Ma,’ in unison. Startled, for this had never happened to her whilst teaching in an English school, she smiled at her new class, returned the greeting, introduced herself and told them to sit down.

She was met with a sea of faces ranging from little, little boys in the front desks to large young men still wearing shorts in the back rows. No one had told her that in Lagos State schools, children who didn’t pass their end of year examinations would have to ‘repeat’ the year, nor that really bright children would be promoted to classes above their age group. There was a real incentive for the big boys to pass Class Nine examinations: when they got to Class Ten they would be allowed to wear long trousers. In England Class Nine would have been made up of 13-14 year olds. This Class Nine crammed 11 year olds alongside 17 year olds!

Crammed was the operative word for there were 50 names on the class list. The new teacher started to call the register and bit by bit the silence was broken by a giggle here and a giggle there.

“What is it?” the new teacher asked sharply.

One of the littlest boys shyly stuck his hand up.

“It’s how you say our names Ma. The English way …”

“Ah.” She understood. “To be honest I can’t even pronounce my own name properly.” The whole class laughed. “Perhaps it would be better if,” she turned to the little boy who had been brave enough to answer and paused, “what is your name?”

“Tayo, Ma.”

She continued, “If Tayo could be my register monitor and tick the names for me each lesson.”

Tayo beamed with the enormity of the responsibility, and she had no doubt that the task would be completed diligently and accurately every day.

“Now to the English Literature course. I thought we could begin with a sonnet we have to study.  A sonnet’s a fourteen-line poem with different ways of rhyming. We’ll go into more of that later. Today we’ll start with an easier one; one that was written by an Englishman who was just a farmworker. He had no education, but he loved writing poems and he loved nature. He wrote this one in rhyming couplets.” She paused and asked hopefully, “Who knows what a rhyming couplet is?”

A forest of hand shot up from the first three rows and a girl answered, “Two lines of verse which end with the same sound Ma.”

“Correct!” said the new teacher, noting the line of blank faces along the big boys in the back row who had no clue. “And can you remember an example?” She looked back at the girl who had answered.

“‘Double double toil and trouble/Fire burn and cauldron bubble,’ … from Macbeth by William Shakespeare Ma. We learned it in Class Eight Ma.”

“Well done!” said the new teacher and the girl grinned with delight.

Together the new teacher and her fifty pupils read John Clare’s joyous celebration of an English summer:

I love to see the summer beaming forth
And white wool sack clouds sailing to the north
I love to see the wild flowers come again
And mare blobs stain with gold the meadow drain
And water lilies whiten on the floods
Where reed clumps rustle like a wind shook wood
Where from her hiding place the Moor Hen pushes
And seeks her flag nest floating in bull rushes
I like the willow leaning half way o’er
The clear deep lake to stand upon its shore
I love the hay grass when the flower head swings
To summer winds and insects happy wings
That sport about the meadow the bright day
And see bright beetles in the clear lake play

The class worked out what the rhyming couplets were. Some even remembered about the ‘iambic pentameter’ rhythm from their lessons in Class Eight. They talked about nature and how it was being stamped out of this city of over twenty million people but most of the pupils had been to visit relatives in their hometowns and villages or had heard tales from their elders about the olden days.

“Could you write a 14-line poem in rhyming couplets like the one John Clare wrote?” asked the new teacher, “that is your homework.”

A murmur rippled through the class at being asked to do a homework which wasn’t of the usual ‘Page 10. Exercise 4. Do numbers 1-10,’ format.

A week rolled by, and Class Nine arrived for their next English Literature lesson. Everyone had tried to do their homework with differing degrees of success. The new teacher was delighted, this was going to be so different to teaching in England where homework had been a constant battle. She asked the keen little register monitor if he would like to be the first to read his poem.

The young lad glowed with pride and stood up in front of fifty curious faces.

“My Poem like John Clare’s by Tayo Adesina,” he announced in a clear child’s voice, adding a little worriedly, “I used a thesaurus Ma …”

The new teacher nodded, “That’s fine Tayo go ahead.” She’d seen a stack of the books on her last trip to market. Wedged between bales of cloth and the dried fish seller, she’d wondered who would buy a thesaurus. Now she knew.

Tayo began:

I love to see white egrets on the wing

And hear grasshoppers begin to sing

I love to see palms shimmer by the shore

And drop fruit o’er the rustling forest floor

And hear the crash of waves upon hot sand

Where fishermen drag boats and fish to land

Where Aunties light the evening cooking fires

And bats come out to dance and swoop and gyre

I like when monkeys strut the compound walls

And yellow weavers drape trees with nesting balls

I love red peppers bubbling in the stew

And cream yam, pounded in rhythmic tattoo 

That Ma was my last village holiday

But What Ma, is this thing, a summer’s day?

The new English teacher sighed as the prodigious talent of the child and the enormity of teaching English Literature selected by a cloistered English examination board in England to youngsters of variable abilities, living in a world far away from England dawned upon her. 

                                                                         *Nigerian street term for a foreigner – usually a non-African

First Published 6 September 2022

Summer UK 2024 - a haiku - by Elizabeth Obadina

 

Summer Heat. Red mists

Souls seeping from fevered minds.

Lucifer’s playground.

Dreaming by Elaine Pearson

 I was sitting with me poetry book

Trying to think of a theme

When I closed my eyes and drifted

And then I started to dream

 

I was in a lovely garden

Resting on an old wooden seat

Under a hanging laburnum tree

With a little dog at my feet

  

The sun was shining it was lovely and warm

A blackbird was happily singing

And somewhere in the distance

I could hear a church bell ringing

 

Oh, this is a lovely peaceful place

With trees and flowers everywhere

And someone’s cut the grass today

The scent is still in the air

 

There’s a patio with beautiful furniture

And a table laid for tea

Whoever lives here is lucky

Oh, how I wish it were me

 

There are pots of pretty geraniums

Stained glass windows and a wooden door

There’s a name on the wall ‘The Heaven’

Who could ask for anything more

 

Then a voice broke into my reverie

‘You ok?’ my neighbour called

I opened my eyes and smiled with delight

‘Cos I wasn’t dreaming at all!

Wasp by Irena Szirtes

credit Canva

 Wasp buzzes, bothers,

but I still release him from

lethal liquid jam.

My Late Summer Garden by Sue Akande

credit: Sue Akande

There’s talk of morning fog on the forecast,

Leaves on my Sumac are starting to turn,

Cooler evenings are now drawing in fast,

Yes, summer will be over all too soon.

Yet the sun is still warm this August morn,

As I enjoy my late summer garden.

Butterflies on the Buddleia adorn,

Rowan with its scarlet fruits is laden,

Plump blackberries soon to be harvested.

The wood pigeon coos its familiar refrain,

Bees are buzzing, late blooms are targeted,

Crocosmia, Fuchsia, Cranesbill remain.

 

My late summer garden gives such pleasure,

And I am thankful for all its treasure. 

Late Summer - a song by Ann Reader

On that long ago day in late summer

I remember that you took my hand

As we walked down the beach path together

And the sea gently lapped at the sand

We were so young then and love was so new

We had such plans such things we would do

Sometimes I still find myself thinking of you

And that long ago day in late summer

 

On that long ago day in late summer

We thought we never would part

But fate wouldn't have us together

And the leaving it near broke my heart.

Our parents decided that we should not be

Mine put me in service yours sent you to sea

How I cried for you did you cry for me

On that long ago day of late summer.

 

On these long lazy days of late summer

When the weather is wonderful fair

Though I've long since been wed to another

And of happiness I've had my share

I think of my life and in truth I do find

The cards that were dealt me have not been unkind

But sometimes that first love springs into my mind

On these long lazy days of late summer

 

On these long lazy days of late Summer

When there's barely a cloud in the sky

I think back on my life with some wonder

At how many years have gone by.

I hope you've been happy wherever you be

And had the good gifts life has given to me

But do you remember that walk by the sea

On that long ago day in late summer

Yes perhaps you remember that walk by the sea

On that long ago day in late summer

Skies - a tanka by Irena Szirtes

 

Summer Skies                                                                                                   credit Irena Szirtes

Larks, raised on song, melt

Into summer sky and stone-

drop into silence.

Winter jackdaws hunker on

trees black-laced against steel skies. 

Winter Skies     credit Irena Szirtes

Petrichor by Stuart Hough

credit: Kath Norgrove

They strolled through the brittle stubble of the corn field towards the river. Cropped wheat stalks crunched under their feet, on the dry earth.  The seemingly endless spell of hot weather had dried the grain, well before the harvest. No one could remember such a harvest. There would be bread for everyone in the coming year and probably beyond.

‘Who needs clothes, when you have long braided hair and so many tattoos?’ Uedica thought. She smiled as she watched her friend. ‘Clothes’ would not be an accurate description of what Rhiannon chose to wear. Moreover, she had chosen to adorn her body with a seemingly random and eclectic collection of fabrics and amulets. Uedica had always been fascinated by Rhiannon’s hair. Sand-stone tresses hung front and back, to her waist. They partially covered her. Her hair along with her calf-length boots, were her bodies main covering.

“Are you just here to watch?” Rhiannon asked sarcastically.

“I thought you were doing really well on your own, but now that you’ve asked...” Uedica replied as she kicked off her small leather shoes and paddled into the river with the other water skin.

The brilliantly clear skies of days gone had given way to the massive clouds that towered above them. Mountains tipped with brilliant white and dark bases, floated serenely in the brilliant blue skies had given way to a more sombre sky.

The cows, goats and sheep were unusually quiet. An expectant hush pervaded the humid air. The air smelt different and the animals knew it.  Under it’s new leaden surface, the skies billowed with boiling activity. The air smouldered with the expectation and closeness of a first kiss. A low rumble of thunder seemed to awaken something primitive within her. The sound grew louder to create a new, clean and sharp scent.

As if on cue, the surface of the river erupted into a life of its own, as large rain drops began to fall. The two women smiled ironically to each other as they stood in the shallows of the river. They scurried to retire under the relative shelter of an old willow.

The earth seemed to sigh with pleasure as the rain fell on its arid soil

They stood in silence as the warm rain fell upon their skin. It was a moment for their souls to connect to the sky. Rhiannon felt a deep joy and a sense of the sacred, as if the Gods themselves were reaching out to touch her. The deluge cleansed the air of the dusty laziness of previous days. It brought a new vitality, warm, sensual and embracing.

“The rain is leaving gems upon your skin. It brings your beauty into clearer detail”. She smiled to Uedica, touching her bare arm.

“It’s also making me wet.” Uedica smiled back. “Let’s go back.”

“Not yet. We won’t melt.” Rhiannon smiled. “Look at this.” Rhiannon traced her finger upon Uedica’s arm. “Each drop is like a tiny kiss upon your skin. Each one unique. A tear-drop of a treasured memory.”

*

They had dodged through the showers, laughing as they ran to the shelter of Uedica’s house. With their clothes hung in the rafters of the house to dry, they had both resolved to spend a lazy, rainy day by a warm fire and with the warm body of the other. They lay together on thick woollen blankets and listened to the steady patter of the rain upon the thatch of the roof.

‘Let the rain come.” Uedica whispered. “Let it come and sing to us. I’m happy to listen.” From their cosy place they watched the rain fall through the open door. They watched it enrich the sweet brown soil and make the leaves and grass shine with light. The rain brought a bright, new life-affirming richness to each hue in the scene outside the door.

The browns deepened in a way that soothed the heart and brought a calmness to their souls. The grass had become glossy as it reflecting the light. They breathed in the pure freshness that the rain brought with each drop. It was as if the land had opened up its veins and they were breathing the very essence of life itself. An was an ancient, seductive fragrance, made of primaeval elements that no one could truly understand.

 Between the showers bright sunshine was the gift for new creation. They had celebrated the rain in their own way. Uedica tilted her face towards Rhiannon. She was greeted with a new smile, a new touch and a new embrace.