Nothing Much Changes

25th Nov 2018

Just thinking of coming to the end of November. Where has that time gone.

Next Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent , the start of a new year in the Church .

Some words :

Nothing much changes

She puts her bins out with rhythmic regularity every Tuesday evening at five.

Her little grey audi drives off next morning at eleven and returns an hour later,

I swear to the minute, with her weekly shop.

The same afternoon it goes out again, always at three - back she comes at five,

walking that bit taller - hair cut,  washed and curled, by Miriam

Nothing much changes

On Thursday’s at twelve a taxi stops and out gets Olive, her friend come to lunch. She wears a purple hat and often brings flowers

On Thursdays too, the gardener turns up, in his red van, between one and half past- she’d quite like Derek to be more precise.  

Monday’s if it’s fine her washing’s  on the line by nine o’ clock and her windows are cleaned on the first Monday of every  month

Nothing much changes

On her birthday, in the afternoon, her brother comes, her son and daughter too, all dressed up and bearing gifts and not just one or two.

They stay till late and through the wall echoes the sound of memories and happy times shared.

No, nothing much changes.

Except today, early in the morning, in the dark, thirteen minutes past six it was , she was taken off in an ambulance.

A little while later I phoned her brother.

She’d died, he said, she didn’t suffer.

A brief moment - a light extinguished - an empty house.

Everything  has changed

A Walk With Orange

6th June 2017



In this Election week many of us are concerned about the future of the country and maybe of the world.
Recent events in Manchester and London have caused  quite a disturbance to our peace .
However, the response to those who would try to take our freedom away from us is surely to use it and get out and vote on Thursday.
We all have the freedom to vote for whoever we think will do a good job of running the country for us. I am not going to say which name/party you should put your cross against. But just be sure to go and do it.
If the majority of the country got out to the polling stations, wouldn't that be a vote for freedom and democracy and fly in the face of those who would interfere with them.

Anyway enough of that. I'd like to share a little bit of writing I did today for a workshop.


We were asked to choose a colour and then take a walk for about half an hour, taking notes if we wanted or pictures to inspire us .

So, on my walk I spotted :
a broken terracotta pot , dirty, half hidden in the  earth 
I wondered how it came to be there  in no one's garden,
but alone with a wreck of a truck for company;
a lily - like flower straining joyfully  towards the sky 
basking in the sun;
a diversion sign for traffic, a necessity it seemed as 
cars waited in long lines for some movement;
a lone marigold bud peeking out from under a wall
maybe tomorrow it will bloom;
five orange buckets - two men in overalls intent 
on some decorating, no doubt;
and then, some oranges in a bowl in someone's 
window- inviting fruit on a hot day;
and in contrast, in the road a distinctive
 orange sainsbury's bag full of rubbish;
a board outside a cafe with a menu for lunch;
a sign above a shoe shop - almost draws 
me in with its familiar letters;
a long dress in orange and black, for the beach,
taking me back to a long ago time of dreams;
and sandals with gold straps to add to
my life, my style, my look ( the orange New Look 
slogan);
lastly, beneath the windmills, out to sea specks 
of tangerine calling to me - time
to come home.

And a poem :
  

 A Walk with Orange                                              

There it sat in the bay window, right in the centre.

On either side, navy curtains dropped in symmetry

giving my OCD a comfortable moment of happy, that large bowl  

 full to the brim with vibrant  oranges.

You’d always said they were good for you, rich in vitamin c

one of your five a day. You picked them straight

 off the trees in our Spanish garden  in Valencia,

heavy scent of orange blossom hung as a taste throughout the house.

Our small, hilly grove gave up her fruit - sometimes bitter, 

sometimes sweet, sometimes in warm hands – large, safe.

Other times cut up on a tray, seeping inner juice to mingle

with my tears -silent , soft, tears drawn from your pain

You never spoke, there was no conversation, not really,

apart from those words of getting by.

Today I eat the pithy pigment with reluctance 

and not without your voice sounding in my ear

Next time I hope to have pictures.

See you soon and thanks for stopping by.