Waiting Room, by Peter Shilston

It was a large room, more like a wide corridor, with various doors with name-cards leading off it. Doctors in white coats strode purposefully from one door to another, and every so often nurses appeared with clip-boards, summoning names for consultation. A few of the patients thumbed in a desultory fashion through the magazines on offer, but most sat passively waiting. I passed the time observing the couple sitting opposite.

                Judging by the remains of a teddy-boy haircut adorning his head, I thought the man must be in his late sixties. His white shirt too had seen better days, and was now too tight for him, so that every button strained. But even so, he looked in far better shape than his wife sitting next to him. She was wearing a long coat, and a brown beret on her grey hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes gazed blankly ahead. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a chain. Her husband spoke to her, gently and continually, and too quietly for me to hear a single word. Not once did she respond, or even turn towards him. I only saw her move when she decided to put her glasses on, but this simple action defeated her, and he had to come to her assistance.

                Finally a nurse came and summoned her. She showed no sign of recognition, but her husband arose. With the greatest gentleness he helped her to her feet, and then took her elbow and led her away, following the nurse. My name was called soon afterwards, and I never saw them again. But still I was touched by this tragic yet beautiful picture of love. 

It's Quiet Now, by Richard Drury

It's quiet now beneath this canopy

where birdsong feeds the tranquility

and thriving oaks dispatch their roots

beneath the earth where hopes once fresh

are held in limbo on this ridge.

And streams of youth once marched in ranks

to merge as rivers at the coast

and build a mighty line so long it stretched

from Flanders to the Alps.

It held a force that thought its might,

could own a continent outright.

It's quiet now beneath these skies

where we can walk or sit in peace

and here the birdsong in the trees.

Mockingbird, by Nathalie Hildegarde Liege

When Darwin, Margaret Agnes Rope and St Cecilia met a bird,

It all looks like you were the Moqueur Polyglotte:

In his notes, in her cartoon, in her composition, on my screen.

Your mimicking of all other birds' songs,

Your feathers and size feared or respected by many,

You are today a morning companion to the three above or with me.

All on my desk for research.

Joy in Darwin's birth town? 

Joy for Marga's town?

Joy in St Cecilia's voice?

detail of St Cecilia's window by Margaret Agnes Rope

Shrewsbury Roman Catholic Cathedral, UK

Descension Day, by Martin Evans

   December 1960 and star cruiser ‘Deliverance’ manoeuvres into earth orbit.
   “Remember! Lead them not into temptation, deliver everyone from evil, no trespassing, and plenty of bread.” 
   “And no wine trickery. We wouldn’t need second comings if you lot did the job properly first time,”  the captain gestured at Messiah 109’s scarred palms. “You won’t be called Jesus this time either,  that’s asking for trouble.”
   The captain pushed the ‘DESCENSION’ button and Messiah dematerialised.  At that exact moment in the back of an Austin A40 somewhere in Wales, a surprise child was born unto Keith and Olwen Evans; the baby Martin.