Uedica at the Forge by Stuart Hough

Annan smiled as she approached. He wasn’t at all displeased that she wanted to watch the forging of the metal. He waited whilst she settled herself. Her eyes adjusted to the sources of bright light in his forge, after her walk through the dusk. She stopped squinting and he could see her face take on the natural beauty that he regarded as so precious. The light played upon her flawless skin. She seemed to glow through her long, wind-tousled hair.

“Did you use the rock I gave you?” She asked, wanting to speak of the subject that had brought her to the forge.

“I did. Usually, I would use pieces from my ‘treasury’, but that rock, wasn’t just a rock. Not a normal rock anyway. It was just too heavy.”

“Rivallo gave it to me. He said that it had fallen in fire, from the sky. I’m not sure that I believe that bit.”

“Well, wherever it came from, it was really heavy for the size of it. The bloom was really bright when it was smelted. I’ve never seen anything like it. There were virtually no impurities.”

“Can I see?” Uedica asked curiously. “The ‘treasury’, I mean.” She knew it was quite a request. Metal-workers were a notoriously secretive, throughout the tribes. They guarded their own secrets well. Never the less, they were a community. They would often recognise the work of others by name and would admire and aspire to learn from those they had never met. Annan looked uneasy.

“I don’t usually show it to anyone other than my father.” He sighed and turned to lift the lid of a heavy oak box. Whatever the young smith’s skill, he knew in his own heart, he could never refuse her. She got to her feet quickly and felt as if she were being admitted to an inner sanctum of knowledge.

She peered inside.

The Bookcase by Elizabeth Henry

 Beside a sunny window,

In the corner of the room,

There sits a shoddy bookcase

Stuffed humour, love and gloom.

 

It holds a dozen hardbacks,

As decrepit as can be,

Their spines all torn and crinkled

And their titles hard to see.

 

They range from vintage classics

To a line of gory crime,

An ancient family’s saga’s there,

Awaiting precious time.

 

A Beano and a Dandy

And a Tiger from your youth

A tour of middle England,

Plus a diary filled with truth.

 

A pinch of Charlotte Bronte

And some Wilkie Collins too.

A timeless opus that will tell

The tale of Owl and Pooh.

 

A guide to fancy gardens

And a recipe for bread,

A saucy slice of narrative

To carry up to bed.

 

And when you think you’re past it

And your body’s not so pert,

You’ll always have a paperback

To keep your mind alert.

Resurrecting Trash by Irena Szirtes

    A faux fur bag made its coffin, half hidden in bushes. On a park bench, pretending to read, I awaited a resurrection.

  When her dog shook the bag, my ring rode out on rafts of waste. Stark and insolent, straddling wrappers, stubbed  lipstick and spent pens, it assaulted decent sensibilities.  I watched her glance from rubbish to ring open mouthed. A lost love token: shouldn't she hand it in? Such thoughts faded like last breath as the sapphire's dark heart infiltrated hers. It was swift, seamless seduction.

    Good! He'll never get it back!

    When I found he was bedding other women, tight-tangled in cybersex, I took my ring to the jeweller. The proceeds would get me far away.

     “He said £3000? Sorry, around £500. Quite an accomplished fake though, quite mesmerising!”

    Now what?

The Sun Goes Down at Lands' End by Adam Rutter

I drive along a narrow by the Cornish coast. I pull over to admire the sea view. My journey ends at the far edge of the British Isles. I have travelled 300 miles from London to Land’s End where it all began ten years earlier. This is where I met Sara all that time ago. I watch a deep red sun sink below the Atlantic Ocean that stretches beyond the horizon. Protruding above where the land slides down into the ocean, a terraced rocky outcrop rises as thin ridges connecting with boulders and round stones. The waves wash over the rocks that hang just above the water. One of those on the upper level is slightly flatter. And, that is the same rock she sat on at the same time of day. It was on a summer’s evening of 2012 when I first set eyes on her. The sky was violet-blue, just as it is now, and the sea is calm – just as it was back then. Her raised knees were pressed against her chest. Her olive skin: a shade of gold in the dim light. Her long dress was as red as the sun. Her dark eyes gazed at the expanse of the Atlantic. The sea breeze blew around her black hair, which covered the back of her shoulders. I stood a few feet from her. She didn’t know I was there. At least, I don’t think she did. It was as though she were the only human being in this secluded part of Europe. Her gaze was still transfixed after the sun had set. She slowly turned her head until she noticed me. I smiled. Sara smiled back – one side of lips raised. She looked away, still holding onto that smile.

‘Are you still waiting for your pickup’, I asked humorously.

Sara grinned.

‘You know you’ll be waiting a long time for the next cruiser to arrive’, I joked.

Her grin burst into a giggle, showing her white teeth.

‘You know when the last time is I saw a ship passing’, asked Sara.     

I shook my head lightly.

‘Eight o’clock this morning’, she said.

‘You mean, you haven’t seen anymore?’

‘Not one yacht.’

‘No way.’

‘The only thing I saw since I’ve been here, and that is a bottle of Coca-Cola.’

‘Ha!’

‘It’s true. It’s down here.’

Sara was pointing right by where she sat, showing me the washed-up jetsam. The bottle was full. It had obviously never been opened.

Weekend in Aberdeen by Sue Akande

Simbi Akande as Marta in Stephen Sondheim’s ‘Company’
(Aberdeen 2018)                           photo credit Sue Akande

I had ummed and aahed for ages about whether to go. It was a long way to Aberdeen from Wolverhampton, just for the weekend and in the middle of term too. Then there was the cost and what about the lesson prep and marking I had to do? My daughter was performing in ‘Company’ by Stephen Sondheim at Aberdeen Arts Centre so I toyed with the idea of catching the plane but the times just didn’t fit. I kept looking at the train timetable. I could just about do it if I left school sharpish, but I was still hesitant. Then, I heard my daughter singing a snippet of her song in the show ‘Another Hundred People’. It sounded amazing and I was propelled to book my trains for the weekend. I just had to go.

Friday came and all went well to begin with. I caught the train to Edinburgh and there were no problems with my connection to Aberdeen. However, we were barely on our journey further north when a passenger, slightly the worse for wear, decided to try and open one of the doors between stations and the train came to an abrupt halt! Had I made a mistake in deciding to travel?

Treasure by Jayne Amanda Burford

Of what do we measure our treasure?

Shiny sparkling adornments

Riches of antiquities

Flashy cars

The biggest houses

Or like the old nursery rhyme

Sitting in our counting houses counting all our money.

Well my friends, the next part of my ditty may strike you as funny.

 

My treasure is made of lots of riches,

My health for which I am thankful

My memories these are my greatest treasure

My family, my mother, my husband, my son and my sister

My love that I give and of which I receive

 

My treasure is my being, of this I believe.

The Seven Ages of Treasure – with apologies to William Shakespeare - by Elizabeth Obadina

All the world’s full of treasure

And all men and women merely treasure seekers

Seeking in their lives, riches; most - impossible to measure

When every age differs on which treasure’s the sweeter.

 

At first the infant nestled in the parents’ arms

Seeks no other wealth than food and milk and warmth and love

Then grows to treasure sticks and stones and nature’s charms

Like feathers and flowers and random stuff.

 

Then whining youngsters; heads filled by ads and desires

Gleaned from tv and tablets and cunning campaigns

Which preach treasures are bought-things to which everyone aspires

Everyone, but everyone has these things they complain.

 

And then the lover; mostly wannabe – sometimes real,

Sighing like a furnace fuelled by dreams and opinions of others,

Which spews see-sawing notions of treasure - depending how they feel

About their faces and friends, their looks and admirers.

 

Then when they grow up to be a tinker, a tailor, a soldier or sailor,

A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, a thief or whatever,

Working long lives of routine and hard labour

Then dreams fade out of reach; imagined, whimsical treasure.

 

And yet some, the justice and his peers, achieve wealthy middle years

And treasure power and respect, fine living with all good things of life

They expect peace and prosperity and nothing to fear

At ease in their castles which shut out the world’s strife.

 

The sixth age shifts what we perceive treasure to be;

However much money bought, however full that treasure chest

With baubles, investments and second homes by the sea,

Poor health and loneliness bring long nights of unrest.

 

Last scene of all, that ends this strange treasure-filled history,

Is second childishness, oblivion, wondering only what the next minute might bring

Whilst smiling and stroking pebbles collected on long ago trips to the sea -

Treasured memories, plain stones held dear whilst we sit,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 

The Nanteos Cup - Cwapan Nanteo - by Jennie Hart

The Nanteos Cup    credit The National Library of Wales

A framed photo of the beleaguered Nanteos Cup in the elegant entrance hall of the country house called Nanteos, made me curious to learn of its history. Less than half of the vessel has survived but that precious fragment is now stored at the National Library of Wales

Nanteos, once the home of the Jones’s and the Powell’s, stands in the beautiful Plaith Valley in Ceredigion. With its high stuccoed ceilings, tall Georgian windows and exquisite fireplaces, it speaks of wealth and privilege, but our brief stay was justified by the chance to unravel the tale of the religious relic, the Nanteos Cup. The room names themselves hold mystery, especially to a Yorkshire lass! Our room was Ystwyth, the name of the Welsh river that has given its name to Aberystwyth. A room nearby was Ynyslas, Welsh for The Blue Island or possibly, The Island of Las.

The gardens are no longer carefully tended, but a few roses twine and tangle in the dense shrubbery. There’s a crumbling bothy and a derelict walled garden which would once have grown fine delicacies for the plates of the aristocrats. Do seeds long buried, still germinate in spring till strangled by nettles and brambles?

Treasure by Marie Sever

The week after moving house Catherine finally felt she could slow down and relax a little. The retirement complex was only a few years old, and the gardens were well maintained, as good as depicted in the glossy brochure she retained in her capacious handbag. Looking out of the window at the manicured lawns and hedging calmed her further. So far, the people she had met in the residents’ common room were friendly.

To live here one had to be totally compos mentis. She had signed one of the many documents to confirm that should she be diagnosed with any form of dementia, then she would need to sell her compact flat back to the retirement village holding company and move to an appropriate care home. How she was supposed to organise all that if she’d lost her marbles, she had no idea, although she had been assured that if she didn’t have a Power of Attorney in place or suitable and trustworthy relatives, then a solicitor would be appointed, working with Social Services, to ensure she was looked after.

That’s a long way down the line, she hoped.

Packing up her three-bedroom semi-detached and selecting the furniture to go with her and arranging for someone to value and take away the rest had been hard enough. None of her furniture was valuable, but it all held memories such as when she saw the scars on the dining table from Kate’s drawings cutting through the thin paper, and then years later, Kate’s son Jack’s Lego kit assembly had further enhanced the surface with dents and scratches. The table’s surface then succumbed to grandchildren Rosie’s, Phoebe’s, Ben’s and Darren’s assaults with crayons, sharp biros and various assembly kits. Despite, or more likely because it was so battered and held so many memories, Catherine wanted to bring the table with her, however there was no room for it in her tiny apartment.

The writing desk her husband had presented to her had somehow been squeezed in, but the only place for it, stupidly, was the narrow hall where she couldn’t use a chair. But then, she rarely wrote letters now, and when she did, she preferred to sit in her armchair with a flowered lap tray on her lap.

So many things had had to go.

Nature is a Treasure by Kath Norgrove

 Barmouth Estuary at Sunset                                                                                                                       credit Kath Norgrove

The wooden boards of Barmouth footbridge thunked under our boots as the cool salty breeze blew off the sea, whipping our faces with the brine-laced air. The views were absolutely tremendous; we could see right up the estuary to the outlines of the hills beyond. There was no haze and everything was clear in the warm golden sun.

credit Kath Norgrove

After nearly a mile, we left the footbridge and joined the trail to the small wetland reserve. It was mid-autumn and it really should have been cold for this time of year. Instead, it was unseasonably warm and we were enjoying nice sunshine and clear blue skies. There was hardly a cloud to be seen as dappled sunlight came through the trees. I wasn't complaining.

Long-tailed tits greeted us as we entered the reserve, a dome of peat and sphagnum moss that had grown gradually over thousands of years. Ferns carpeted the floor of the orange, yellow and brown alder and silver birch woodland. Reed-filled ditches lined the gravel pathway. There were pools on either side smelling a bit stagnant but the ditches had some flow in them, linking one pool to another. What looked to be the remains of Flag Irises drooped into the water. There was the slightly distracting sound of traffic, on occasions, from the nearby road, but birds were calling in the trees. Now and again, a crow gave a raucous caw. Otherwise the bog itself appeared quiet but there were likely to have been woodcocks sheltering in the wooded edges and water rails may have been hiding in the reeds.

Back out on the trail, we started following an old track bed of the Great Western Railway, which closed in 1964.