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Dear Auntie Margaret
Our dear Auntie Margaret
What can we say?
How to recall you
On such a sad day.
You loved all the children
The mums and dads too
You cheered people up
When they felt so blue.
I’ll always remember
Your smile and your laugh
You smelt nice of lavender
When you’d just had a bath.
You loved to make bread
And pastry and cakes
You passed on your knowledge
For all of our sakes.
And now we say thank you
For all that you’ve done
For all that you’ve taught us
For making it fun.
We hope you like heaven
And that dad is there too
You’ve earned now the rest
That God will give you.
Ginette Gibson, Newbury
Birds on the horizon
With beating wings the birds do fly
As all the seasons pass us by
The eagle soars in skies above
And brings the peace just like the dove
And hail the swift so fast it flies
To the horizon in the skies
Ginette Gibson, Newbury
To My Dad
Thankyou so much for all you’ve done Dad
Life without you will make me feel sad
I’ll remember you for loving and giving
And for putting up with all of my singing
Thanks for putting a roof over my head
And providing me with a nice comfy bed
At Friendship Club you loved to play scrabble
But a lot of my words they were just babble.
We’re glad that you gave James and I life
We were born through your love for Diana your wife.
You were friends with Margaret for some forty years
She shares with us our sadness and tears.
And now we lay you down to your rest
At the place that we know is the best
In the countryside in the wood
Where I know it will be good.
You’ll have fresh air amoungst the trees
There will be buzzing of the bees
We will be there for a nice walk
With memories that we will share and talk.
And now as we do start to say
Our prayers for you for this sad day
We say goodbye and wish you well
But only for a shortish spell.
One day we’ll see you again once more
In heaven where there is such a store
Of love and hope and faith and peace
A place where we can find release.
Ginette Gibson, Newbury
Social Distancing
I see that the old man next door
Is breaking all the rules
He’s got his music on at night
And brays just like a mule
I don’t know why he looks so mean
His hair all grey and dirty
He seems to think his smile’s as great
As when he just passed thirty.
I reckon I could get that man
In trouble with the law!
He doesn’t even seem to know
It’s almost half past four.
He never takes his dustbin in
And he just rants and raves
We’ll be so glad when he’s down town
And digging his own grave
Oh Daddy, did you see that man?
He fell down on his knees!
He dropped his hanky by my toe
And gave a mighty sneeze.
I thought I’d die of laughter
As a bloody tooth came flying
It serves him right
For standing
By his back door all night, crying!
I’m going to get that man locked up
Did you see what he did?
He broke the new two-meter rule
And breathed close to my kid.
I tell you, he’ll be flashing next
I’m gonna make the call
He’s bound to have the virus
As he’s old, and not so tall
I heard that man was dead in bed
For almost fourteen days
I saw it in the paper (he was
Seventy, by the way)
His wife had died last year and he no
Longer cared to eat
We’re only glad he did not die
In public; in the street.
He had no page on Facebook
So he didn’t have a name
He’s just a man we didn’t know
So we don’t feel ashamed
It’s great that there’s an empty house
For a new young family
And we won’t have to hear his grief
At twenty-five past three
Andrew Martin was once young
He had a family
He worked long hours (to pay the rent)
At the electronics factory
He lost his wife to cancer, his son
In Afghanistan – but
To you and me
He’ll always be
Just another
Lonely
Old man
Anne Marie Denning, Newbury
Daddy Longlegs
Steve Horne, Hungerford
Jackdaws
Like Peaky Blinders, the four of them;
their shaved sides, sooty caps
shiftily balancing caution with menace
casing the log pile, the pond for freebies.
So jumpy these Jacks, flinching
at wind gossip; sometimes bracing,
other times cowering, all the while glowering
through the portholes of their heads
(I’m feeling obsidian, rimmed with gold?)
Some cloud-based judiciary spirits them off;
whoever knows what they’re guilty of
we won’t hear from again.
Steve Horne, Hungerford
Transcendence
She looks in the mirror and wonders, if her face is looking too chiselled today.
She frantically tries to define her cheekbones with even more makeup
Her thoughts seep into a dark chasm of having to go past those builders
who holler transphobic slurs at her.
Would it be easier if she just let the blackness take her beyond existence
so the excruciating pain of her life can no longer harm her?
The man in the mirror looking back with large breasts,
is not the man that he knows inside.
But his family, neighbours and people he meets don’t see
that strong male image he knows he can be.
They see a withered insignificant female mess.
He knows in a spiritual sense he has chosen a difficult path.
One which, is shrouded in pain, ostracisation disrespect and failure.
The shadow looms over him
Like a candle that once flickered a hopeful glow in better times is just snuffed out.
All is dark, the man and woman have succumbed to their torture
and gone over to the event horizon.
Let them not die in vain.
Leo Sumner, Newbury
The Single Riding Chap
For ten years I fostered you,
Left behind, a single twin.
For ten years I sought your rightful owner,
A jockey, once our lodger,
Now returned home,
At least not answering their phone.
So now it was just you and me.
Once a protector of left leg
Against stirrup leather,
Was there another role you could now play?
Without skills or time to upcycle you
into a patch or a strap
I began to resent your lurking reminder
Of my obsession to find a
Good home for every useless scrap.
Your end came swiftly, in the end.
The cat peed on you, saturating (re-tanning?)
Your strong black leather, now, reeking,
More easily consigned to the bin.
So goodbye dear chap.
I’m sorry I failed you.
As our cat innocently purrs,
The potential of your afterlife,
Is now in the hands of Veolia’s
Waste-to-energy recovery system.
Penny Locke, East Garston
The Frog
While I was away a frog died.
I can’t help wondering
How long it took to die,
Slender toe snagged in twist of wire.
Snagged so tight as it tried to pull free
Snagged so tight I had to break the bone
To release the floating star-shaped corpse.
A smaller live mate crouched on its back,
A heap of spawn besides.
The chicken wire, a forgotten pond protection
From feline predators who leave bitter headless
Amphibian corpses for us to mourn.
Feline predators we curse and shame
But at least the end they deal is swift.
Penny Locke, East Garston
Astronomers
As evening falls, the town is turning inwards
Like the leaves on a chrysanthemum.
We pass, increasingly unseen,
Our eyes fixed dimly on the ground
Our several worlds all splitting,
Shrinking down to one small point
And hemmed in by the darkness all around.
Then, unthought-of, lamps are turned on up and down the street
By hands devoted to the day; to light;
To certainties; to clarity of view,
To clear integrity of sight
Where gold is always gold and blue is blue.
But high above the town, half-seen through shadowed trees,
The grey observatory waits for night with sliding-open mouth.
Under its dark dome, astronomers converge,
Smile quietly as lakes of fading daylight wash across the skies
Then, with excitement, turn their lens’ careful view
On countless points of light:
On cataracts of midnight gold, clouds of golden blue,
Dancing infinities of shifting sight
Forever hidden from our landlocked daylight eyes.
Brian Quinn, East Garston
