When all else fails....

... Aileen has a lego portrait of John... in the land of the Proseco drinking giants...

Scots Pine

by Helen Elsley

The space below a remnant
of Scots Pine forest
is beaten earth, shed needles
twists of fallen branches
lodgepole trunks standing,
warrened about the roots.

On the edge of the moss their
blue tufted clouds
furze far above my head.

Years ago, I was taught to read
discarded cones.
Exploded in a cyclone swirl,
they told a tale of squirrels,
red as the high branches
feasting in unseemly greed.
The neater crossbills
picked their careful harvest
from the armoured scales
of each dud grenade.

Sight and sound dulled down
to the branchless, rough-barked
trunk, I would have lost
their treetop call and coloured flash,
if they didn’t drop
their leavings at my feet.

Twilight, Gran Canaria

Our gatherings this summer have brought with them stories of water and nature from all over the world - writers' holidays. As we move into winter again the cosy woodstove cabin will be cheered by the memories of warmer places and times. 


Twilight, Gran Canaria by Pat Sutherland

The sky painter signalled sundown
with a primer of peach,
a random wash of silver-grey;
drew a menagerie of fabled beasts,
shape shifters transforming
from phoenix to turtle in an instant
against a backdrop drifting
between blush and crimson.
One burning bar descended
into black ocean
and was quenched.

"Trees" on Loch Lomond

Cruise Loch Lomond again played host again, on 20th September, to a glorious day of writing and pondering trees after Gerard Manly Hopkins inspiration... his "beadbonny ash"

Aileen's art is a breath of fresh air!

Porthole

by Pat Sutherland

Through the porthole
the trees pass in procession,
graceful branches Tai Chi swaying.
Dog roses drift in, blowing
pink kisses,
bramble blossom promises
bounty to come.


Nature has reached her peak,
her zenith of greenness,
parading in full uniform,
epaulettes and all,
waving her flags.

Today she cares nothing
that her colours will rust
and winter will snatch her curling leaves
and scythe her grass:
for spring will follow
to herald another summer
celebration.

Nature through the porthole
affirms the fatal dissonance,
our niggardly four seasons:
we bud and grow, blossom
and wither, rootless
 in arid earth
that knows no spring.

This day, of sun and dappled shadow,
of light on water
we will hold dear.

Scribes on Peccadillo

Navvies' Barge is the new name for Peccadillo but somehow that old name keeps surfacing in stories... and paintings. Aileen's first attempt at painting  a barge was ace, particularly the portrait of Richie the dachshund!

Scribes
by Helen Elsley

3 scribes sat upon a bow
Sat upon a bow, sat upon a bow
3 scribes sat upon a boat
And its name was Peccadillo.

The first scribe
Wove silken sails of gold
Selkie tales untold, salty tales of old
The first scribe wove selkie tales of woe
Embarked on Peccadillo.

The second scribe
Had wisdom to the core
Wisdom to the core, priceless tales of yore
The second scribe was furthest from the shore
Afloat in Peccadillo.

The third scribe
Wrapped pain up in a joke,
Poked lightly at the woke, kid on he’s just a bloke
The third scribe made wonders when he wrote
Aboard the Peccadillo.

The fourth scribe
Couldna write at a’, went in the cabin door
Had cake and then some more
The fourth scribe dropped pencils on the floor
and dreamed on Peccadillo.

Portrait of the artist - can you find her?

I OPEN THE DOOR AND LET MYSELF IN

by May McIntyre

Who am I?
Who is that person standing
In the doorway?
I am at a loss.
Have I seen her before?
I have no idea- none at all.
 I do not recognise her.

If it is really me
I have not found her yet.
Not found myself
After caring for my son
Being there for him
Twenty four hours a day.
All day every day.
Caring for him with all the love I have
In my body to give.
Feeding his every need.
Giving my life to him
Putting mine on hold!

It's still on hold
Although he has gone.
Gone for ever. I could not stop him.
Out of my sight.
Out of my life on this Earth

Without him my life is
Empty,
fruitless,
meaningless,
worthless.
Although I try every day to
come to terms
With his death
Presently I have no idea
Who is standing at that door
I cannot identify her.

Maybe soon I will recognise
A new me. A different me.
Sadly I will never ever be
The old me
As I am now not that person
I was before.
Part of me is missing.
A gaping hole has
Been left in my heart.
Too vast to try to conceal
However hard I try.
But who am I right now?
I do not know!