Storms and Roses

Life carries on

It’s hard to escape the world, even in this remote and rural part of England. The last few days have seen a farmyard fire cause a huge explosion when it ignited fertiliser stored in a barn. No one at the farm was hurt, but twenty-one firefighters suffered minor injuries. Local residents were asked not to call the emergency services, because they lacked the capacity to deal with anything other the major ongoing incident.

Then at the weekend, a person was stabbed at the kebab van and the police used a taser on man nearby. The road was closed for a couple of days, while the incident was investigated. There hasn’t been any updates from official channels, so village gossip is filling in the gaps. The initial rumour was that it was an argument over drugs, but a new rumour on social media claims it is a turf war over roadside van pitches.

Yesterday evening, the Neighbourhood Watch Group received a post stating that three youths were throwing stones at the Village Hall and the windows might be broken. Various concerned citizens went to investigate and found the youngsters in the car park, riding their bikes around. There wasn’t any damage to the Hall and they denied throwing anything, so it was just a minor storm in a tiny teacup.

David and I have been busy keeping the garden tidy. He takes Ruby the Beagle with him to the vegetable patch and poly-tunnel, which are both the other side of the garden fence, now the land has been divided. While she was romping around the woods she sent up a male pheasant that escaped over the ditch to the farmer’s field. David is keeping a close eye on Ruby near the back boundary, because there are pheasant chicks about. Meanwhile, I have been looking after the roses and geraniums, which seem to need almost daily dead-heading at the moment.

I have also managed to publish an anthology of writings. I’m not sure of the urgency, but one of the authors is in his mid-eighties and in poor health. He wanted to see ‘his’ book published without waiting too much longer. He wasn’t able to contribute anything more, because he’s not able to concentrate for long, his hands tremble and he finds writing tiring.

My eccentric friend had also passed on to me some of her writing. She asked me if I was going to do anything with it recently. She said she’d been given ‘her red book’ by a pair of hands, while she was semi-dozing in front of the television.

With two elderly people wanting to see ‘their’ book published and the intrusion of out of the ordinary events brought to my doorstep, I felt an unexpected urgency to get on with it, so I gathered together all the material I had and padded it out a little with some of my own poems, so there was sufficient pages to create a paperback. The cover isn’t exactly red, but it’s near enough. I hope they are both satisfied with the result. The book is called “Unclaimed Voices” by William Bewick, Elizabeth Cook, Patricia May and me. It is available on Amazon now in both paperback and Kindle format.

I don’t think my need to get the book published is a premonition. It certainly doesn’t feel like one to me. It’s more likely that I’m trying to exercise a little control over the storms occurring around the fringes of my life. I expect it’s a trait found in many people with a Capricorn Sun sign.

David and I had our first choir rehearsal with the band and it was fabulous. Our Musical Director has put together a group of renowned jazz musicians, including a drummer, with a violinist and an oboe player. The sound was awesome, especially the sobbing violin intro for Danny Boy and, separately, the floating medley of the Gabriel’s Oboe - just absolutely beautiful. So anyone going to the concert on Saturday afternoon at Chelmsford Cathedral will enjoy a music-fest. The energy was electric and we are still buzzing!

I have given myself a wide range of topics to pick from for my poem this week. I have previously written about fire, a stabbing and roses in my various book, but I’ve settled on sound.

As you might recall, I have been going through my poems to pare them back to their essence, or in some rare case, reshaped them to be less abstract (wafty?) and make my meaning clearer. One such poem is from my first collection entitled “The Universe Whispers” and this is it:

THE UNIVERSE WHISPERS
The water lapped the shingle shore
with a soft whisper
carrying a song it had learnt
from the universe.

The wind carried the sound
across the landscape,
as it flowed through branches
and over fields of corn.

The animals joined in
while the fish traced the melody
in their swimming and
the birds piped it at dusk.

A whisper echoing in the minds
of poets and artists
as they reached
to share the song.