At the Seaside, by Peter Shilston

“I have come to the sea. I hate the sea”.

     He had much the same thought every year. There was so much about the seaside that he disliked. The strange and unpleasant fishy smells. The way sand got everywhere when the wind blew: into his eyes, his hair, his clothes: all very irritating for a fastidious gentleman. The perpetual taste of salt on his lips. Not to mention the extortionate prices charged by mediocre hotels in the holiday season. 

     But of course there were compensations. He would be sure to meet some attractive young girls, and with luck their mothers would allow him to photograph them, and to write to them afterwards. It would all be very pleasant. But in his heart he knew that any such episode would be no more than a doomed attempt to recapture the joy of a lost love from the past, which now survived only in memory. Here he was, a middle-aged gentleman, moderately successful and prosperous, with plenty of friends, but afflicted with a gnawing feeling of loneliness. 

    Fortunately, he never remained despondent for long. While he was collecting together the toys to attract the attention of children, he ran through in his mind a jokey little poem about his dislike of the seaside, and before he set out for the beach he jotted it down. He signed it, as was his wont, “Lewis Carroll".

Bertha's Brook, by Andrea MacDonald

Do you know of Bertha’s Brook ?

It’s a place where children play

People talk and walkers walk,

 And on the bridge there couples court at the closing of the day.

Daytime finds it splashed in with toys

Boats and twigs and skimming stones

Squelchy wellies home by sundown

To dry by the fire with soggy clothes

Evening finds a courting couple

Happy to be hand in hand

Feelings express the waters babble

Life moves on as change demands…

A nestling nook

On tapestried hills

For casting ills

Across the fields

And feel the freedom that it yields

 Stiperstones Squilver Snailbeach

said softly

 for the soul who’s seeking solace

You’ll find it there

And that’s a promise.

Sunrise, by Peter Morford

It had been a pretty good night really and Lerner could have a lie in, for tomorrow’s Sunday. He had £40 for the evening’s work and a quid or two extra from tips. He felt it was worth working on the weekends if it meant his student loan would go further.   After a short walk he was at the entrance to the tube station.  In thirty minutes he would be home to enjoy a beer.  Then bed. And Sunday?  A bit on work on his essay about The Romantic Poets and back to MacD for the evening shift.  Another forty quid plus.

            At the bottom of the stairs leading to the escalator he saw the man sitting in the yoga position, his erect back a few inches from the wall. As he approached him Lerner heard him say, in a cultured voice, “If you feel so disposed you could put a small offering  I might be able to do something for you.”

            Lerner looked down at the shiny brass bowl and almost automatically he tossed a couple of coins onto it. “I might be able to do something for you,” the man said again. Lerner saw that he had put coppers in.  He felt embarrassed. After all, there were the gratuities.  He felt in his pocket again, dug out a pound and dropped it into the dish. As he was about to move on the man said, “Thank you young sir. Now I will do something for you.”

            Lerner stopped, wondering what the beggar meant.

            “You’ve helped me.  I’ll help you,” he said again. “I can grant you a wish.  Don’t laugh. I have a rule though. Do not make it here.  Don’t even think about it until you get back to your rooms. Then, and only then, just before you go to sleep, make the wish.  I’ll get the message. I bid you good night.” The young man hurried down the escalator and boarded the train.

            Later, as he drank his beer he thought again about the mysterious man. I’ll humour him, he thought. It’s harmless. In the warmth of his bed, he thought again of the man on the cold floor. Smiling to himself, the student murmured “I would like to see Australia.” He was quickly asleep.

            When he woke up he felt the warmth of the sun through the open flap of his tent. He went outside and saw the vast plain, stretching to the hills on the horizon. There was no sign of human life.  He felt as though he was the last man on earth when several kangaroos came up to him, and as if satisfied by what they saw, hopped away.

            He considered his position.In his pyjamas. No money, no other clothes, no cellphone. Nothing.  He though hard and wished.

**

Moral – if you make a wish to go anywhere, make sure you have a return ticket.  And cash.  And clothes.  And…

The Shadow, by John Garland

Where am I? More to the point, who am I? I must approach this problem logically, scientifically.

I have just come to full consciousness, and I find I am standing in a wood. The sky above is black, and there is a moon, so it must be night-time. How did I get here? I have no idea.
   The moon is full, and I must have good night-vision, because I can see my way through the trees. There is a path, and I walk along it, since it must presumably lead somewhere. All around me I an hear the faint night-noises of the wood. I make as little noise as possible. I am interested to observe that, despite the darkness and my loneliness, I am not afraid. I suppose I can speak, but there is no point in doing so, since there is no-one to talk to. I wonder what language I would be speaking? I have no way of telling.

After I have walked for some time, the wood gives out, and I find myself on open grassland. There are signs of cultivation, so I must be near a human settlement. Some sheep are dozing on the grass: they see me and run away, bleating. I wait for a while, in case dogs or a shepherd may be roused and come to investigate. Nothing happens, and I resume my walk.
    Finally I can see a village. There is no-one in sight. What shall I do when I eventually meet someone? Should I knock on a door? Do I ask them where I am? Will they understand what I am saying? What if they attack a stranger who suddenly appears? I must go cautiously.

Ahead of me is a tall, blank wall. The moon is shining so brightly that it casts my shadow on it. Is that really me? those ears, that jaw?
     Now at last I understand. I am not a man. I am a werewolf.
 
           AAAAAAARRRRR!

Love Song, by Newena Martin

The wind is rushing up the hill 

Pushing lifting soughing 

Dying away 

To be born again 

My love is coming to me 

The tent flexes in the wind 

A noise like an old wooden boat 

Sails and rigging rubbing 

While it is cradled and rocked 

In the moving sea and the windy sky. 

I am going to touch my love 

Likewise I lie lulled, caressed and cradled 

In a waking dream by this warm wind. 

A shushy roar of "oohs" and "aahs" musics loosely 

With skittering, tacketing leaf percussion - 

I am going to hear my love. 

That velvet vibration on my ear for real 

Takes me down 

Spreads me out 

Dissolves my knots. 

The moon's settled back in her easy chair 

Very bright and very calm 

A huge aura. 

She gives enough light through the turquoise tent 

That I may write this in otherwise total darkness. 

I am going to see my love. 

A fast high wind carries the little clouds racing past the stars 

The sky is midnight blue and deeply washed - 

Every nook and cranny jet-streamed, 

Ground, sanded and blasted by this wind. 

I am going to caress my love. 

My spirit is lifted 

The weight around my heart is gone 

My love is coming to me. 

I cannot sleep for joy 

Joy at feeling alive once more. 

I am at peace in the secure womb of the tent 

Where a dried rose lies. 

I have been here before with my love 

Over thousands of miles away. 

Take care on your journey today my love 

I wait for you with joy and a smile in the dark. 

My heart missed a beat 

When I heard the creaks 

From the tallest ashes 

Leaning out over the bank across the lane. 

If the ash came down across the garden tonight 

I would not care. 

Tonight I would be happy to disappear. 

My love loves me. 

I wait with joy -

Suspended - in the light dark. 

My love is coming to me.