Blog Archives

Rubble on Formby Beach, by Guy Fletcher

29/5/2018

On the vast sands of Formby Beach
grey stone is relaced by red:
bricks from the Second World War
belonging to Bootle, Liverpool.
Each brick tells its own story:
dramas and triumphs from homes now long gone
yet the rhythm of the sea carries on,

risiing tide like a giant gate closing
cleansing tiles and basins from houses
that once stood in the mighty city nearby
before the bombs of the Luftwaffe fell.
I sense the ghosts of the terrified
and by the edge of the sand golfers play
but the tide can't wash history away.

Sixty, by Ian Fletcher

22/5/2018

At sixty years old
there seems a certain
inevitability about it
as if one is driving
at speed on the wrong
side of a busy road.

The question of whether
I’ll reach that Biblical
span of three score years
and ten is quite pressing
but now there’s the matter
too of the how, the how
it will to happen to me.

Could it be the big C
or some other disease
or might I simply
pass away in my sleep
with a mere whimper
on some geriatric day?

If I’m on track to go
in my family way
I reckon I can expect
a fatal heart attack
right out of the blue
and that will be that.

Yes, sixty I find
focuses the mind
with great clarity
on life’s only reality.

The Amazing Tale of Joe Thompson, by Guy Fletcher

21/5/2018

Joe Thompson from Rochdale Football Club
endured cancer, not once but twice,
yet due to a tremendous spirit
returned to play for the Division One side
scoring the winner in the 69th minute,
a goal which saved them from relegation,
it's hard to imagine his elation

after so much fear and suffering,
a true hero especially to those
who watch their side come snow or gales.
Joe described the goal as "Fate",
fairy-tales do happen after all
and after this memorable game
brave Joe Thompson has discovered fame.

On Cardiff Bridge, by Guy Fletcher

14/5/2018

I pause on Cardiff Bridge,
people pass by as if the tranquil water
is invisible on this sun-kissed May day.
Ducks, swans drift in the famous Taff
painted azure by a Dali sky.
There are verdant trees on the other side
as I observe canoes gracefully glide

past the Principality Stadium
silent and somnolent on this soporific Sunday.
It's soul-soothing staring into the depths
of a river so pristine today,
long gone the days of King Coal.
Over the years bodies have been found,
I seem to sense...the spirits of the drowned.

The Park, by Guy Fletcher

8/5/2018

He has escaped from the four walls
which whisper insidious messages,
wide-eyed he pauses to study
the park's trees dressed in cherry and white blossom,
a few silken petals flickering down.
The May sky is painted a vibrant blue,
he loves nature's restorative powers,
a soft breeze sways a rainbow of flowers:

opium poppies, forget me nots, delphiniums
patrolled by common white and admiral butterflies.
He yearns to remain in this moment
like a photograph but the film rolls,
the pink blossom will descend and decay,
trees become green once again
and yet his unquiet soul has found peace
just for now all his negative thoughts cease.

Rush Hour, by Fabrice Poussin

2/5/2018

I remember
how can I forget
I had just learned to walk
just opened my eyes
just learned to like.

I was happy
running around your days
it was simple it was sweet
I had it all!

So soon it seems I woke up
it was rush hour
all around
twelve lanes of mad racing things
I was all alone.

Over with the days when I was
running around your life
you left me there
at rush hour.

Holiday, by Fabrice Poussin

1/5/2018

Everyday a holiday should you wish
yesterday a day for love or for hate
a fight broke out in the kitchen and
ended on a cold tile floor; no one died.

Remembering New Year’s day again,
already when the decade seems so old
whose year indeed?
Whose birthday?
Everyday a holiday for her and a kiss.

There is no fourth of July to remember.