Blog Archives

Penarth Beach in June, by Guy Fletcher

25/6/2018

I pass the Kymin and there
in front of me stands the glorious pier
its silver hue shining on this sun-kissed day.
Cumulous clouds like Middlearth mountains
frame Weston and the Somerset hills,
my heart beats faster, the sight of the sea
always brings forth the child hidden in me.

A boat leisurely glides
on the somnolent blue water,
a reflection of an Arabian sky.
Seagulls drift under wispy clouds
their reflections like spirits on the pebbled shore.
Many people are enjoying the view
under a postcard sky painted deep blue.

There is an old timer in wheelchair
lost in thought, her soul free for a while
and children throwing pebbles with the tide
ebbing on this Saturday afternoon.
But it was much more crowded
in Victorian times now long before
and I sense their ghosts...strolling on the shore.

Geriatric Rock 'n Roll Show, by Guy Fletcher

18/6/2018

I'm sitting outside Caffe Nero's
watching the concert goers stroll by,
there seems to be nobody under sixty
as I relax under an azure sky.
They wear clothes best suited
to those who are in their teens,
beer bellies and walking sticks,
faded lives and fading dreams.

But I'm an old cynic with no right
to mock others, yet I do,
the Rolling Stones are coming to town
and they are legends, it is true.
But the audience look even older
and I remember them fondly in their prime
yet everyone at the concert
for one night...will travel back in time.

Tragic Villain's Backstory, by Daeira Brown

16/6/2018

I would've been good if
I had been taught how.
If I were to start would
it be too late now?

I am more than what you
make me out to be;
you see, I had dreams once
when I was still 'me'.

But now I'm a shell of
what could have been light;
instead I'm the one
whom the world has to fight.

Midnight on a Quiet Street, by Guy Fletcher

11/6/2018

It is nearly midnight on a balmy Saturday
and I sit outside my house to contemplate,
leaves hiss and whisper to each other
lights go out in the house opposite.
A neon streetlight now adds the only colour,
a cat slowly strolls with no thoughts of death
as my brow is caressed by summer's breath.

I wave to my shadow which reciprocates
as if a ghost on this quiet street
then boisterous drunks break the peace of the night
shouting nonsense into the tropical air
and high above the moon wears a halo,
clouds crack like ice and I view a faint star,
how frail and insignificant...we are.

Old Man on a Sunburned Bench, by Guy Fletcher

4/6/2018

I met an old man on a sunburned bench
wearing a coat though the weather was hot,
body bent like a weather-tortured tree
with watery blue eyes the colour
of the Arabian Sea.
He told me that his age was ninety-four
so born years before the Second World War

and informed me he was raised by Guildford Crescent Baths
where I swam many decades ago,
oh, no one swims there any more.
I listened to tales about old Cardiff town,
a history book in human form
but then his carer helped him to his feet
and someone else sat on the sunburned seat.

The Walk, by Ian Fletcher

3/6/2018

Things can get hectic
in the office on Mondays
but at lunchtime I take
my constitutional walk
through the local village
crossing the churchyard
on my way.

The newly-tended graves
remain linked to the living
though they speak not to me
for I delve deeper within
to seek the overgrown
neglected ones of a century
or more ago

drawn to those headstones
that are now forever unread
or weatherworn to illegibility
in the zone where all names
are unremembered.

Returning thus refreshed
my colleagues wreathed
in their world of surfaces
find me to be no different
nor perceive that my mind
has a Buddha’s smile inside

for the dead, the long dead,
have once again bequeathed
their wisdom upon me.