I once had a cat I named Jemma,
Who had none of the virtues of Emma.
She had whiskers uncombed,
And the fact that she roamed,
Left me in quite a dilemma.

Raymond Grindrod

We both agreed it was an interim arrangement –
No deep passion – that had been spent on others.
You were not really my type but I liked
Your sports car. And the silk scarves
You brought me from Italy
With hand rolled edges.

When you drove so fast it took my breath away,
Froze my skin to a skein of mortality,
I realised that interims
Provide passionate situations –
Making the traveller with you
A lover of a kind.

Frances Sackett Published in “The Frogmore Papers”

The Leader points to home. Points the way.
Like the Lord, showing the Way, leading the followers.
They fan out behind him, seeking his direction.
There are those that flit back, and forth, following
But, slipping away as they fly, at a distance.
Those that have broken the formation drop behind
Yet looking to follow the leader’s guidance
Flying on their own. Following their own path
Trying in vain to make their own formation.
The geese fly high in the cold, pale sky.
West to their Winter rest
Until the days grow warmer, and they take flight once more
And soar above snowy caps, and take up formation.
It takes them over the glittering sea
Bringing them to the breeding grounds
To form another generation.

Lynda Wootton

Is this the same place?
this chattering playground, buckets and spades,
where azure waters extend their welcome
to the sun—warmed sands,
in gentle wave-bourn pearls, row upon row,
bubbling softly into tepid shallows
past infants happy in their arm-bands,
venturing the crystal water to their knees.
A day of smiles. A day to remember.

Is this the very same place/
this empty strand, friendless, rain-swept,
where the dark grey waters, gale-driven
roll ashore wave high advancing boldly,
tumbling until shape and substance both are lost,
their spluttering subdued, 
where nature’s choir sings out the troubled oceans roar,
no pause, no let, competing with the wind.
Majestic, but no welcome. Cold comfort.

Geoff Evans

He fell from forty metres up,
Alighting on the forest floor,
Emblazoned carpet with the shape
Of pining pieces, cone-shaped lair

Inviting himn to enter, live
Again , unheralded, as brave
As he undoubtedly was, give
As good as he got, and then save

His old, unlimping walk to trees
Away from Spartan rooms, a stick
Alleviating novelties
Of constant pain he could not shake.

David Morris Kenny

“Good evening Sir/Madam, what would you like?” bar staff used to cheerfully ask, actually making you feel welcome in the pub. All too often these days, you go up to the bar to order a drink and, behind it, you find a young child invariably messing around with their mobile phone and, of course, chewing gum.

When they can be bothered to put the phone down and come across to serve you,
What do they greet you with? “Are you all right there? What sort of stupid, inane question is that? Of course you are not all right. You’re not standing at the bar for the good of your health, you want serving.

After ordering your drink, he/she wanders off to find a glass. In my case this is usually a half pint, which seems to confuse them. When they have filled the glass, well, after a fashion anyway, it’s put down in front of the beer engine.
They expect us to use our legs, which in my case are probably over three times older than theirs.

Next we come to paying for the drink. “How much would you like?” I normally ask in a pleasant manner. The barman/maid hasn’t got a clue, even though they probably serve the same drink many times in a shift. Again they wander off, this time to the till, nowadays a machine of computerised wizardry which tells them the price.

Without budging from the till, they tell you. Needless to say, it’s asking too much for them to use their young legs, so the old ones are used once more. You give them a fiver but, alas, their mathematical skills are such that they have to use the till to work out the change. Pocketing the change, the young thing behind the bar stands there expecting a tip! As I base tipping on quality of service, they don’t get one. Off they go with a scowl; off you go to the far end of the bar, to retrieve your drink.

Publicans, take note! My legs might be getting on a bit, but they can get me to another establishment that actually makes me feel WELCOME.

Bill Addison

Considering the length of his life, he was good at transience;
Perhaps had it always in the back of his mind.
He catches the split-second moment –
The jockey highlit by the sun in the winner’s paddock
Under the royal flag
For the time it takes to flap just once.

Or that sunset light which makes a virtue
Of impermanence, brooding with meaning,
Implying death and forever, coming soon.
On the pier at Nice, one summer evening
He paints people in motion, fading like ghosts
In the midst of success. 
Notice the black coach, galloping,
Behind the fashionable lady in white.

The perennial rituals of rural France –
Harvest and haymaking – rush past him:
The labouring beasts, the fragile
Machinery, rusting in the field.
Even the somnolent hills are blurred 
As they speed by. 

His Venice is both light of heart 
And ramshackle, the crowding houses held
Briefly together, like dancers,
Until the tune ends; 
Placed, for our contemplation, behind
The butterfly sails of small boats
Under a vast, windswept sky.

Objects are fleeting: they move so fast
They almost evade light; 
Colour slips off their shoulders, a light cloak 
In the high wind of time.
See how the morning harbour at Honfleur
Is haunted by the boats of yesterday
That sailed with last night’s tide.

Sylvia Christie