Tuesday, 13 November 2018

Howling gales and blogs


Cap’n Bev facilitating:

9th November found us bobbing in the basin unable to sail with force 7 gales in the city. We had a low turnout with illness, London appointments and work afflicting our numbers so the session was used to take a good hard look at the blog… do you like it? I’m concerned that much of the inspired writing that has been shared during our Water Story sessions is simply languishing in notebooks at home when much of it is of a quality that really should be out there. I elicited promises of submissions; well done John and Aileen who came through… the rest of you? I’m coming looking for it!
Summer on the canal
by Aileen Paterson

The blue green glint of dragonflies
flying in the sun
white lilies
fallen pink blossom
butterflies
yellow iris
a circle of gulls
in the hazy sky above
the sun makes me lazy
dozing on a summers day
lily pads harbour life
as words emerge
on blank pages
thoughts brimming over
below the surface
a sunken world
of algae covered trolleys
brown trout
a pink rose clings to a bank
catkins scatter
small flying things
like tiny planes escort us
past pink and cream blossomed trees
where wood pigeons meet
in shaded groves flecked
with dappled light
drifting seeds like fairies
travel with us from the rushes
secret paths wind
through the trees
the glide of swans
with fluffy cygnets trailing
two herons stand in the reeds
fly up as we approach
then finally our boat is home
and the fairies vanish
back from where they came.



The Darkness
by John Young

 Ying meets the Yang,
 the sadness infuses with happiness, oil on water, they never congeal.

The deep trough has no end of misery, the shallow depths of trauma, never ending bleakness, the helplessness, the cushion of despair, engulfed, no light is visible, cul de sac existence of banality and servitude.
Although the chink of light, the glimmer of hope  a sliver of serenity the power of hope, within the darkness there is always light, the ying in the yang.



Taking Time
by Bev Schofield

Hollow and haggard the
9-5 stagger on busses and trains,
in sunshine or rain… not for me thanks!
Shuffling to old and to grey,
marking what’s left in pennies and days.


I’m taking time as mine,
the finite line of this life, my gift.
Sift through achievements and money if you will,
but still I would find my own peace of mind,
reach for outcomes and art
that are my definitive part.





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