OYSTERCATCHERS: A POEM TO ACCOMPANY JAN WHITE'S PAINTING...

Oystercatchers Skimmed As I Surfed…

(Jan White's fine painting illustrates the scene)

The morning sun

Offered no warmth,

Merely gleam,

As tousled, wild sea, still in the throes of a spent storm,

Built layers at low tide:

Enticing, invigorating.

The swirling shallows

Extended no welcome,

Just coldness,

Upon vulnerable feet, still warm from a stern march:

Spoilt shivers of previous tides

Embracing, ingratiating.

The hurling surf

Spared no mercy, 

Merely thrust

And flung my board, still in the grip of tense hands:

Whipped down onto dying tide,

Racing, elating…

The oystercatchers flew east,

Mad breakers crested,

Just flashes of white and black:

Slim, red bills keen,

For my cold eyes a feast,

My attention arrested:

Just streaks on rip’s attack,

Solely by me seen… 

Pete Ray

(AT MAWGAN PORTH IN HAPPIER DAYS...)

COVID-19 UPDATE FROM SOLIHULL, 30TH MAY 2020...

COVID-19 UPDATE FROM SOLIHULL: 30TH MAY 2020...

So, another week has passed by and more traffic has been seen on roads around here, more folks have been seen in groups, sitting about, playing with balls and frisbees, cycling both on pavements and on narrow lanes, and of course joggers have been out a-wheezing, a-sneezing, a-nodding, a-plodding and a-sweating…

I was amazed to spot a long line of people, some two metres apart, waiting in direct, hot sunlight to get into, er, Notcutts’ Garden Centre. We seem to like queues here in England… Then there was also the queue of drivers waiting to dump their own trash at the Bickenhill refuse site… A long queue had formed when I was driven past the access road earlier in the week but warnings further back along the Coventry Road made it clear that from certain points, there were 3 hour waiting times, then 2, then 1… Some people must have been desperate to get away from lockdown conditions to spend their time perspiring in a vehicle with only the waste disposal scenery to enjoy…

I walked along Tanworth Lane one morning this week and approaching from the Stratford Road end were two joggers, man and wife, middle-aged but they ran towards me one in each gutter, parallel and level, leaving me with no other alternatives than to walk up someone’s drive to avoid their presence, or to get run over on the crown of the lane… What is wrong with people?

And then on the return journey, I needed to call at the Stretton Store for milk but exiting the shop was a strident fellow I know well enough, though he was wearing a mask on this occasion. His dog has generally leaned against my knees when we have met in the local area, providing a pleasantly warm poultice but the mutt was in the chap’s car on this particular morning. He told me to stay clear, for his wife had ‘symptoms’ (and he had been fitted with a pacemaker some months ago) but why on earth did he go into the shop for his newspaper, if he was unsure of his situation? Isolation, surely? And then he revealed that he was 50/50 in his opinion about the always smartly attired Dominic Cummings’ ‘behaviour’…

I rushed into the shop holding my breath, bought milk and dashed home…

The ‘branch in the gully’ between Stretton Road and Micklehill Drive had again been mown round by the council’s grass-cutters last week, leaving ridiculous and larger tufts of long grass displayed but this morning (Saturday) someone had dragged the offending bough further along the grassy verge, so when the cutters arrive soon, they’ll have no alternative but to remove the wild grass, which of course will now begin to grow where the displaced branch currently resides…

Walks at Yarningale Common, Temple Balsall, Alcester and Elmdon Manor have been interesting, although yesterday’s spill from Elmdon Manor into the park, near the Jaguar Land Rover plant revealed a good number of groups of people lounging, their children playing together and males (mostly) chucking frisbees about and kicking soccer balls in quite large groups. I was, er, surprised at the numbers spread over the grassland but remained clear of them, noting a number of beer and lager cans left lying awry on the ground just 10 metres from an admittedly overfilled waste bin… 

A few Bundesliga footballers have been seen spitting this week, hugging each other after goals have been scored, as well as clashing heads. Away teams have done particularly well so far with no crowd advantage for their hosts, which maybe augers not well for teams struggling against relegation in the Premier League, for they might be relying on a few scraped points on their own patches to save themselves… 

TEMPLE BALSALL...

One neighbour has decided not to cycle on local canal towpaths any longer because too many dog walkers and joggers are vying for room too… I was amazed by his comment because he ignored the fact that pedestrians have largely given up walking along towpaths due to all three of the above dangers to their health and privacy: cyclists, dog walkers and joggers… 

ALCESTER...

So, yesterday I lost control of a mug of coffee which flew out onto the wallpaper, my diary, etc, etc, but not onto the carpet or sofa. Then I cooked a curry and a fly flew into my left eye, whereby I wiped it, unknowingly with red pepper residue on my finger and my eye was suddenly on fire like a WW1  Somme tank and finally I knocked an empty wineglass over but caught it, slip-catch like to save it before it rapped onto the table…

A bad day…

Anyway, I’m off to spit onto a sleeping policeman… 

(That IS a joke…) 

The Mowdog… 

  

GETTING A NICKNAME...

Getting A Nickname

It rained.

It began just as the group walked 

Away from the stadium in Highfield Road

And he, preceding 

The two tall lads, was leading 

A troop downhill

Towards a theatre, where his car was parked;

He then pulled the hood 

Of a blue top made from towelling

Over his head, narked 

At the change in the weather, 

For persistently, 

It rained…

It drizzled.

It continued as the troop descended,

 Discussing another Aston Villa victory

And he, striding

Was taunted by the lads, deriding 

His smaller stature,

Approaching the theatre: “He looks like a pixie

With that pulled up hood…”

In the blue top he was initially scowling,

Then in laughter barked

His assent, despite the wet weather,

For insistently,

It drizzled…

Pete Ray

May 27th 2020

The two teenaged brothers would become my nephews-in-law and both were tall.

THE PIX AT HOME, KIND OF...

Whenever we drove to Coventry City to see Villa, the Lions seemed destined not to lose and on this one occasion, as the rain began I yanked the hood of my blue top over my hair.

ME FAR LEFT, NEXT TO SKINNY PAUL, WHOSE BROTHER, FAT MART IS FAR RIGHT...

The lads thought I looked like a pixie from behind and from then on I was known as ‘The Pix’…

WHERE WE HAD SAT AT HIGHFIELD ROAD, COVENTRY'S OLD GROUND...

Compared to the lads’ nicknames of ‘Skinny’ and ‘Fat’, I reckoned I had got off rather lightly…

A TREASURED POSSESSION...

I’m known as The Pix to this day… 

  

THE WAR MEMORIAL, HUNTINGDON: A POEM...

Musing

Musing, chin resting upon left hand,

Elbow upon knee;

His piercing gaze, oblivious to all but a few,

Lingers across the square,

Perhaps willing Old Ironsides to provide an answer;

The adjacent church had offered none, 

Merely employing gargoyles to mock 

This soldier’s distress

And his physical and mental trauma from trench warfare…

A poet, maybe,

Or an artist?

For the wistful pose

Speaks neither of injury, nor of death,

But simply the contemplation of the pointlessness

And his needless demise:

The poignant black permanence dominating the habitual red wreath…

Pete Ray

Huntingdon, near the church and opposite Oliver Cromwell’s schoolroom.

The WW1 memorial begs questions, rather than depicting grief... 

TEMPLE BALSALL YESTERDAY...

PZ 17 & ITS OTHER SEAGOING USES: PART 14...

PZ 17 & ITS OTHER SEAGOING USES:

PART 17...

NEW POEM ABOUT WORLD WAR 1...

LE SAPEUR: Waiting, Wondering, Wanting…

There was some real pleasure,

He thought, although he could never admit as such,

Just being seated upon that worn wooden chair,

Dry, solid, unencumbered, a treasure

And he pondered its surface, smooth to the touch,

As he leaned before a scored café table,

Staring into his coffee, black and sweet,

Away from The Front, during a period of leisure…

A pioneer, he would dig saps,

Tunnels through muck and mire,

Forward, towards enemy lines

And violent trenches and killing fire:

Un sapeur labouring on nocturnal fatigues

With pickaxe wielding, 

Hacking then shovelling

The cloying clay and lying water,

Prepared an advance towards enemy wire

And such excruciating but inevitable slaughter…

There was some real peace,

He thought, although he would never admit as much,

Just being waited upon in that estaminet,

Dry, safe, untroubled, at ease

And he wondered about her smile, her touch,

As he watched her glide between the tables,

Sharing a glance, a blush discreet,

A warmth up front and real, not a cruel tease…  

The pioneer, he would dig saps,

Tunnelling through mud and mire,

Forward, towards enemy lines,

The turbulent trenches and galling wire;

Le sapeur labouring on a nocturnal fatigue

With pickaxe wielding

Was choking then falling

Into sinking clay and lying in water,

Bleeding perchance from enemy rifle fire

And died, hallucinating, in the intolerable slaughter…  

Pete Ray

May 27th 2020

A  World War One French sapper, whose job was to dig a trench directly towards the enemy under the cover of darkness.

As this fictional character died he was recalling a waitress’ smile and glance his way as he sat in an estaminet drinking coffee during a rest period.

The sappers could be forced to march many hours before even beginning to dig, working until dawn, with no light shown, no cigarettes lit and not in moonlight, obviously.

Saps were covered but the very digging brought its own dangers… 

  

LINCOLN ST FAITH'S...

Lincoln St Faith’s…

Redbrick housing:

Untidy, similar accommodation,

Cluttered about the foundations of 

‘Steep Hill’,

Whose intimate, quirky environs

Of chic boutiques

And myriad nooks,

Of tea-shops and crannies,

Of heritage and Roman occupation,

Of grandeur and magnificence,

Of its cathedral and its prominence,

Of its omnipotence and its historic consecration,

Impressed, 

Yet the base-camp depressed in its desecration…

Hidden and slotted into a stern, Victorian claustrophobia,

A solemn, austere place of worship sat;

Walls, intimidating and uninspiring

Belied a tempered interior,

Where stained glass Saints

Frowned upon a key-holder’s terrier,

Which, between rows of dull pews,

Pithered and dithered and passed wind

With relish, free from owner’s constraints

And earthly, animal restraints…

St Faith herself, depicted twice, 

Sorrow in her meek, blessed gaze,

Seemed glorious in her martyrdom,

Clutching grill and sword, her God to praise;

Head covered in one remarkable image, 

Hair in ringlets in another. And long.

Her Faith unwavering when challenged,

Her resolution stubborn and strong;

The death scene showed her kneeling in wistful prayer,

As a sword above her was wielded,

Proving her trust and love in her Christ:

And to pagan belief, St Faith never 

yielded…

Pete Ray

The dog was a West Highland Terrier and Staffordshire Bull-Terrier cross, which was, er, lovely… 

The two St Faith images in stained glass were the flanking figures in separate windows…