Regret

Terger - the other racehorse;
He didn't win.
10-1 odds
Not even a place
His brother, though,
Another matter:
Made history
Then disappeared.
Bred in the same stables - 
Had to be separated.
One kicked,
The other spat
Who named who?
Who had the last laugh?
Me or you?

© Isabel Hare
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Photograph

Pose, click, inspect, click, swish
Time and image changed
Pose, pose, wait, smile too long
Now those smiles are so practised and so fleeting
Is that what I look like?
This thought can be deleted.
We all know what we look like, in these now fleeting moments of self-reflection.

© Isabel Hare
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Reflection (or: Nyumbani)

Bright-eyed and eager, you welcomed us to your palace.
"Jambo," you chorused; "Jambo," we replied.
And for the time it takes to drink a glass,
side by side, to laugh,
or for a lion to lift his head and roar
our lives touched.
As we drove away in our 4x4 you waved;
And I felt ashamed.

© Sheila Rogers
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Photographs

Late dawn, 
burnished glow,
branches black
in a fire of gold;

moon hangs
luminous in
the blue West.

light splashes
trunks, leaves, fields,
catching puddles,
drips on gates.

I possess the image,
capture it, sparking joy,
thinking I can hold it forever;
a photo - the pale reflection
of the moment.

© Valerie Taylor
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Reflections

You weep your leaves into
water's lap below,
a flotilla of sienna, vermilion, gold.

Your boughs, near naked now,
reach up and out,
your sculptural fluidity mirrored below

all wreathed in shafts of Autumn sunlight.
The windows of my mind treasure
this memento of your resplendence.

© Helen McIntosh
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Photographs

They lie forgotten here, dog eared and creased,
Dusty and yellowed at the drawer's back.
In colour, sepia or grey, they've ceased
to meet their purpose.  No note is scored
in faded ink, no reason yet nor rhyme,
why someone unknown wanted to record,
this fleeting moment in a by-gone time.

© Gill Leslie
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Paradise

The playground mothers were never content. When it was windy, they folded their arms crying, 'That teacher expects too much.' Tony's mother was new, so she would be the devil if she disagreed, but with news of the papier-mâché project she took her son's hand and hoped things would improve. Tony's rigid thinking had seen off the father.

On Sunday, Tony's mother inspected the finished model, 'Which country?'

'Paradise,' Tony said, 'I need milk and honey for the river.'

Wendy Vacani

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Photographs

Studio-still in a cardboard moon,
Making a keepsake for his pocket -
A ploy against bayonets.

Oh! To perfume his image,
Paste his face in a locket,
But she is not 'his'.

Over the threshold,
She says: 'Stop Our Will being shot,'
Handing the photograph to her mother,
For her brother's pocket, instead.

Wendy Vacani

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Paradise

A walkie-talkie squawked. Eighty yards away, Ben spotted a solemn circle of people, some standing in gently lapping waves.

Helen had been blithe, almost child-like, on holiday: how she had been enchanted by light, lush fronds, scampering lizards, the babble of tongues.

Ben knew who he’d find – stark and still.

© Tim Scott

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