WILLIAM'S WRITING

Ascending the steep cliff path was a group of older folk. The women in the group seemed to me to be weary; there was also an expression of fear in their faces. The childlike expressions portrayed on the faces of their men-folk put me in mind, first of Valium and secondly – probably because we were on a National Trust footpath – of the National Trust’s luscious Celtic Mead honey wine that I enjoy.

I stood aside on the inside of the track lest one of the group grab me and drag me over the edge.

When the group had passed I was left with no choice other than to continue on my way: ‘Is there evidence of a fault line?’ I asked myself. My fertile imagination was taking hold …my inner thoughts were accelerating into imaginary drama. I visualised an obituary column of the weekly local newspaper and I could even hear my Solicitor clearing his throat before going on to read my Will in his predictably demure tone, so suitable for such an occasion.

In the meantime my partner had marched on and it was only after an anxious few minutes had expired that I stumbled upon her waiting for me in a niche of the cliff.

 ‘There are some nice wild flowers here…shall we take a photo?’

I was pleased with her observation, but dumbfounded by her suggestion, and it took several seconds to re-gather my thoughts before I replied:  ‘…but their roots are anchored at least inches if not several feet deep into the cliff!’

‘…also, what about the wind?’  I continued, hoping that the tone of my voice did not betray the extent of my anxiety, for I was very frightened; yet my partner’s demeanour seemed so relaxed about our situation.

As if nature was trying to emphasise the danger we were in, the neck flap of my anorak slapped my ear several times before I managed to clip it back. Unfortunately, this manoeuvre meant that I temporarily let go of my walking aids; whereupon my thoughts became ever more far fetched.

Was it my fertile imagination or the bloodymindedness of my feelings that induced an image of my partner in the hands of one of the older folk who had ascended the path behind us? Whatever, I was beggared if my thoughts would camouflage my approach to the task in hand.

© Ken Campbell

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William’s Story

Ascending the steep cliff path came a group of older folk, the woman, eyes glaucous with fear, faces etched with weariness; the men, possibly fuelled with a heady mixture of Valium and Nat Trust wine, bore grins of mad schoolboy excitement. I stood aside on the inside of the track, lest one of them suddenly clutch at me and drag me over the edge.

When they had passed it left me with little choice but to continue, which I did, meanwhile examining the path carefully for evidence of it actually developing into a fault line, which could of course lead into a short paragraph in the obituary columns about subsidence and misadventure

The scene arose before my eyes. The reading of the will.

Somebody: "Did he leave any last words?"

Solicitor, "Er yes," – clearing his throat – "Eaaaagaaaroooooghhhh!"

Meantime my partner had marched on. I finally shambled upon her waiting for me in a niche in the cliff. "There are some nice wildflowers here," she said. "We’ll have a photo!"

I was aghast. "But their roots are anchored at least inches, perhaps feet into the cliff; I, however, am balanced on top of it. In THIS wind." As though to emphasise this, the neck flap of my anorak gave me a stinging slap in the ear, then followed with a volley, as I struggled savagely to clip it in. A desperate move this as I had to temporarily released my white-knuckle grip on my walking aids, or trekking poles, (all right walking sticks).  

Back at Dontyoubuggersdaretouch Towers (Tudor manor house with Victorian ‘improvements’) Edith’s hands fumbled over the controls of her walkie-talkie:
“Billiard Room to Control, do you copy, over?”
Static is followed by Cynthia’s query about visitors fiddling with the cue ball.
“No, dear – Control – we have a situation.  At the cliff.”

© Tim Scott

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If you had looked

If you had looked

through the bars

under the layers

inside the box

you would have found me.

Safe

hidden

trapped

seeking release.

If you had looked

you would have caught

fragile glimpses

whispering fun

great purpose

bright energy

Look now

bars gone

layers melted

box recycled

I can see you,

can you see me?                                                                                  

© Liz Redfern

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William’s Story

Behind me I saw a group of older folk climbing the steep cliff path. The women, eyes glaucous with fear, faces etched with weariness; the men, possibly fuelled with a heady mixture of Valium and Nat Trust bee wine, bore grins of mad schoolboy excitement. I stood aside on the inside of the track, lest one of them suddenly clutch at me and drag me over the edge. It also gave me a chance to rest and breathe deeply to control my impending panic attack.

When they had passed it left me with little choice but to continue. My mind was still racing with worst case scenarios of plunging to my death through some fault line in the path that could mysteriously appear at any moment.  I was already mentally writing my obituary and hearing the will reading. Of course the world would be a lesser place without me and they would be outraged on my behalf because the sign about possible subsidence had been removed by vandals the week before.

The scene arose before my eyes.

"Did he leave any last words?"

Solicitor, "Er yes," – clearing his throat – "Eaaaagaaaroooooghhhh!"

The imaginary cry brought me back with a jolt to the cliff path and I noticed my partner further up pointing to some wild flowers.  I could hardly hear her above the wind, or maybe I was choosing not to. My selective deafness had always been a handy defence against her instructions. Her gesticulations and general pointing was suggesting I photograph the flowers for her. I could immediately see that meant I would have to clamber down into a niche below the path.  

I was aghast. "But their roots are anchored at least inches, perhaps feet into the cliff; I, however, am balanced on top of it.  In THIS wind?!"  To emphasise the wind and my terror, the neck flap of my anorak gave me a stinging slap on the ear, followed swiftly by a volley.  I struggled savagely to clip it in. A desperate move as I had to temporarily release my white-knuckle grip on my trekking poles (all right walking sticks).

Then the cliff scene suddenly became a metaphor for my whole life. Blown around, terrorised, waiting for fault lines to swallow me. The wild flowers drew me in and as I leant forward towards them I heard a shout `oh bugga` through the wind as she fell from the cliff.

© Liz Redfern

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Journey's End

       "Oh, really!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "So slow, and now ... here!"

       She thrust the camera at me, stepping forward. I recoiled. She lurched, gasped. As she floated down, her coat billowing eagle-like about her, a wail spiralled up, faded - and died.

      Far below on the river a green hat eddied, then sank.

© Sheila Rogers

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Grandiose ideas arrived for him with the wine

We talked about his work

- the nightmares and fisticuffs that inspired it -

which meant so much to us at the time

(which had been, I’d like dinner

which became long walks, shores

beaches, standing on the stones).

I didn't know they’d been great

moments.  Sometimes.

Well, terrible sometimes.

© Sophia Roberts

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