Lines

As an old friend
Tells me
Some things are
Too deep
For words

The lasting lines
Of a familiar face,
Lines that shine
Through suffering.

They are memorable lines,
Lines that laugh
In the face
Of adversity.

At this time
I hurry along
Virgin train lines

Through the long
Line shadows
In a winter landscape.

Seeds sown yesterday
Crushed but undaunted .

The reason for the extended journey round the country was that someone had fallen? in front of a train at Leighton Buzzard. I was shocked to hear, "How inconsiderate to jump in front of a train and close down a complete network particularly on a Monday morning." Fortunately I was not able to say anything.

JL Jan 31 11:09

Weekend Away

Saturday was a day of gruelling donkey work. I have reached the stage where even overcoat is heavy. A travelling bag and mini case was just about manageable, but the stairs!

Owing to a body on the track at Nuneaton all West Line trains were re routed via Birmingham adding an hour. A taxi to the theatre was just right. Theatre Royal , Haymarket, A Lion in Winter, with ," Lyndsey and Lumley .......Terrific.

Thence to a charming apartment in Pimlico loaned to us by friends and accompanied by friends' charming daughter and quite adorable granddaughter doubling as a rider from the Vienna Riding School, and the only person to talk to me engaged with the text -to -talk machine, a memorable encounter. She enrolled me as a temporary child," Just a moment I will go and ask the adults." In response to a question. We exchanged views on the moon. I thought it was a new crescent moon. "It's a banana moon." She said. It will be ever so.

Sunday afternoon the the Royal Festival Hall to a very English afternoon concert. It began, where else, with A Lark Ascending and so with it, did the spirit, held in high ecstasy upon a fine thread of sound. I have heard it many times. This time however, be it the chemistry or some magic, the final phrases came clearly home. The trilling apex of notes resounding the lark song so often heard in years gone by across a meadow or high above the sand dunes by the sea.

This was followed by the Delius cello concerto, soloist Lloyd Weber, played beautiful and gently. However this piece tends to lose it's way in the middle section. It suffers from fatigue. The Brig Fair had more life.

Of course the Elgar Enigma Variations was a defining English moment. I cannot hear the melodic middle variation without seeing black and white screen depictions
of the wounded bomber safely over the coast or a Spitfire gliding onto the tarmac. It's not as triumphalist as the Pomp and Circumstance nor should it be, it is more forgiving, a thanksgiving.

Then after the lark ascending to be constrained into watching the final episode of "Birdsong", descending into tragedy and loss.

A wonderful weekend despite the uncertainties and therefore a heartfelt "Thank You" To all who helped it along especially Nora who magnificently engineered it.

And blow me down someone did a Monday morning jump onto the line at Leighton Buzzard. They managed to achieve a complete shutdown of the west coast network so there was a diaspora across country. We took the tube to Paddington to catch a train to Reading and then wait an hour for a connection to Manchester and hopefully thence to Blackpool North.

Arrived four hours late. The whole rounded with an Oh twas good.

JL Jan 30 18: 49

Sunday

Am in Pimlico until tomorrow. News to follow!!

Saturday Yesterday

When the world was so much bigger than today and I was definitely much smaller, days seemed so much longer.  Saturday was a day to savour.  People worked on Saturdays in those days at least till noon and then went home for lunch, or dinner in our house.  Before I worked on Saturday, the morning was strictly apportioned, all errands done followed by the omnibus edition of "Dick Barton Special Agent".

  From earliest times I came home on Saturday to the scent of roasting meat. There was always a roast on Saturday, usually a joint of brisket although I can't remember roast potatoes on Saturday. They only appeared on Sunday after Mass.  Boiled potatoes with beef gravy, carrots or cabbage, that was the order of the day.  I would have loved to have been a "Bisto" kid.  The "Ah! Bisto" poster appeared  everywhere  but we were strictly, Cross & Blackwell gravy browning.

There was sago pudding and a dollop of jam to follow, but not for Dad, " Can't be doing with it."   Rice pudding was known by some as "The Old Burma Road", not in our house.  Dad had done four years in Burma and it was not to be treated lightly. Though he did say Rangoon was a beautiful city.

On the down side Saturday could produce some nasty moments especially in winter.  Dad would fly home,  have a quick change of clothes,  wolf down his excellently and carefully prepared meal and dash off to The Match.  This was sure to send my mother into a paroxysm of righteous indignation worthy of any Mrs Joe Gargery on the rampage,  bouncing off ceiling, walls and floor. I beat a hasty retreat till it was all over.  In later years the exit was slightly smoother because I went as well on the football special to The Match.  I could have appeared as a small smudge at the bottom left hand corner of a Lowrie.

Once at The Match,  like other small lads I was handed over hand and head,  down to the fence where we were shielded from the crush of the terrace. My dad never went behind the goal always on the side terrace. This he considered safer and I surmise the language was less offensive.  I do not remember any real argy bargy but then again I could have a selective memory.

On the way out through the gate I was told to breathe in, hold tight and be carried along.  Thus were we popped like corks from a bottle,  fear, security and excitement all in one push. The match itself was a bit of a red blur.

I spent the evening upstairs with a book, Enid Blyton and W E Johns in the early days and Raymond Chandler or Thomas Hardy later on.

JL Jan   28 8:23

Soot

 

I sit here and smell soot.

I must have a dark angel

On my shoulder.

The burnt feathers

Of yesterday

Happen!

That or Pat Phoenix

And the Rovers Return

Mixing the media.

JL Jan 27 14:16

Don't Say I Didn't Tell You Daedalus

Where do you come from

You in fine feathers

And fine words?

My mother told me

Of birds and fine feathers

And not to be deceived

By fine words,

They don't put food

On the table

(She never got round

To buttering parsnips.)

Far too flighty.

There is nought more cheap

Than a heart upon a sleeve

Slashed sleeve in particular .

Always ready

With a deflationary pin

A ready flame to singe

The feathers

A heart situate

In the heart’s

Proper place

And just think on

You get what you pay for

and she knew

When quality shone through.

Sleeves and feathers

Fine silk shrouds

Had no pockets.

You arrive in the world

Without a stitch

And need none leaving it.

What you sow in between

Is what matters.

She never put you in your place

Just shot you down in flames.

JL Jan 26  16 :18

Heronry

 Here are herons

Stiff and straight

Above the dark lake

Nine or ten lone beaks

Scan the sky

Atop the trees

Thin grey sentries

Straddle messy nests

Intimidating

Firm of purpose

Poised for a spring

Not quite round the corner.

Being not quite sure of the name for a heron rookery, find in wikipedia that Heronry is ok.

The illustrated example there is of a heronry in  Stanley Park, Vancouver, Canada

The one to which I refer is in Stanley Park, Blackpool, U.K.

JL Jan 25 14:11

A Deprecating Smile

Feeling
In floods
Overwhelm me.

The canoe
Slides silent
Smooth

Through
The reeds
Darkly

The ripples
Slap soft
Urgeful

The broad
Opening
Widely

The breath
Of wind
Eases

We are
Calmed
On the swell

There are
No words

Just no words
As we slip away.

JL Jan 24  12:37

Visiting

Feelings in floods

Overwhelm me

Submerged beneath

Your smile

Buried with

Your touch

Cheated by

Your guile

 Then

Breathless caught

Within the lace

Gathered to

Her  breast

Crumpled in

Her fond embrace

heaved against

Her chest

Breathed in

Kisses  hot and juicy

"Is this your new

Young man?"

Comes the whisper

Of my girlfriend’s  Aunty Lucy.

JL Jan 23  17:10

Table of Contents

A warm house
On a cold day

Dry socks
After a wet walk

The smile of a friend
Across the lunch table

The dental crunch
Of the after dinner mint

The honour of a tiny hand
Held in yours

The light brushed kiss
Of a rendezvous

Granting of a space
For your special hope

?
?

A nodding prayer
To the almighty
When the day is done
With thanks


JL Jan 22 13:50

The Day

This is the day the first snowdrops appeared in my garden.
The sun came out
The wind blew
White horses over the incoming tide


JL Jan 21 13:09

Just One of Those Days

Today surrounded
By a fine rain 
Of saturation
Its drip and drop
From roof and tree
An incessant
Whinging melody

Impatiently I wait
A  cloud shift 
From the west
Under the salt laden
Wind from the sea
Where grey doldrums
Anchor me.

sit easy and rest awhile.


JL Jan 20 13:09

St Wulstan

Looking at the saints day today it is St Wulstan an Anglo Saxon bishop. A story in the window at Downside has him tempted by the smell of roasting goose while saying mass. He prays for the loss of distraction and he will never eat meat again.

This is a sad misjudgement I think. Surely the scent of roasting goose is a delight: one of God's gifts to be delighted in. If we should wish to sacrifice something then it is wrong to denigrate it for then it would not be a sacrifice but a duty. The story in the window is not official by order of myself.

Let's love the delight of things and savour them. They are the gifts that enhance life's journey, like the chaffinch outside my window and the sunlight on the patch of water, the goldfinch on the lavender and a fine Bordeaux .

JL 19 Jan 10:40

Letters of Thanks

 

Perhaps here

A note of thanks

As the news

Of doom

Has broken

On the shore

To all who

With cudgels

Of kindness

Have besieged

My heart

And brought me

To this sole

Humility of thought.

Sometimes when

the wind's

So harsh

It drains my

Willingness to be,

A  kindly

Thought from

The unexpected quarter

Gathers me

And then to savour

The missiles

Dropping through

The ether

That slap ones fears

Through the  tears

To laughter

The man with the boil upon his bum

Who treated  the mirror with the plaster

The plosive splutter

As the penny dropped.

On the tale of this disaster

Then does one realise

The lord doth temper

The wind to the shorn lamb

In an unobtrusive

And most personal way.

Just that it's hard

To notice

Day by day.

JL Jan 18 13:26

Discomfort

 

Long legged schoolgirls

Stalk my window

Swaying forth

The essence of their youth.

A fragrance lingers

In the still cold air

A heady mixture

Of forbidden fruit.

Herein the transport

Of delight

The all consuming

passion of possession

A whispered  call

Carried through

Their promise

Of transgression

Beware beware

Concupiscence!

Whatever you may feel

It will be a sin,

Enjoyment yes

But still a sin.

Perhaps because it does not scan.

JL Jan 17  15:31