Poem, by Brian Bilston

 

A response to Philip Larkin, by Catherine Redfern

 Philip, I don't feel your fear.

Occasionally I look ahead and wonder.

I feel sure that death's not near - 

perhaps a comfortable delusion I'm under?

Oh, since the timing's uncertain

why not ignore the final curtain?

Those early hours when dawn is hesitant

are not the time for contemplation.

Try the Test results: our failing nation's

always good for an early rant.

I can't deny that death will happen,

but, with outraged certainty, you knew

you were trapped in a pattern;

nothing more sure, nothing more true - 

your father died at 63

and so would you. 

The monstrous fairy legend: "I will curse you

with the knowledge of the hour of your death."

Larkin believed there was a count of every breath:

he knew that soon he would he would breathe the last few.

Not to be here. Not to be anywhere.

He was right: the knowlege freezes us.

Most push it into the long grass

as I do. My mind clings to the moment;

this sunlit morning, this music, this poem,

this friendship, this love.

Perhaps illness will force cognition.

Larkin didn't wait for that end and

we grieve that this was so;

for, each time we turn to him, he lives.

Missing Bill, by Lisa Oliver

 

Hannah says sometimes the voices are loud and clear, other times she only hears whispers, hints of a presence.  Hannah hasn’t heard his voice yet, but says she’s sure Bill’s there. She says she can see a man with a thick head of white hair. Well, that’s Bill to a T.  He was always so proud of his hair, it never thinned.  And Hannah says he is very smartly dressed.  He did look lovely in a suit.  I used to be so proud of him when we went out.  He liked to treat me to Sunday lunch every week.  Even when he couldn’t drive any more he’d treat us to a taxi down to the White Lion.  He said I shouldn’t be cooking on a Sunday; it was a day of rest. Oh, I do miss him.

Hannah says he is with me still, he’s never left me.  He’s just on a different plane.  One that I can’t, now, what was the word?  Oh yes, one that I can’t ‘connect’ to.  It’s hard to understand, but she’s ever so clever. Really puts it in a way that makes sense.  She can connect you see.  She’s got a gift.  I’ve been seeing her for a while now and she says Bill’s presence is getting stronger all the time. My friend Lizzie has been going to see her for years.  She lost her daughter you see.  Hannah’s been a great comfort to her. 

I never expected Hannah would be able to help me too.  I was ever so sceptical the first time I went.  Lizzie persuaded me, she said if it wasn’t for me then at least I’d given it a try.  She knows how much I miss Bill.  Well I would, wouldn’t I after being married to him for so long.   Lizzie said I couldn’t carry on like this.  She was right too. I did feel so much better after I saw Hannah.  I felt like I had a little bit of Bill back with me.  She said he was there next to me, resting his hand on my shoulder.  I couldn’t feel anything mind, but she’s such a nice girl; she reassured me he was right there. 

Our Sandra thinks I should leave well alone.  She says it’s an expense I can’t afford.  I don’t mind though, it’s worth it.  And I don’t mind cutting back a little bit if it means, well, if it means I might hear from Bill.  I do miss him.

copyright©Lisa Oliver

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Granny's Adventure, by Peter Shilston

 (Recently, a group of friends had a discussion lamenting the fact that adventure stories all featured young men, and there was never a central role for adventurous grandmothers. We resolved to remedy the situation. This is the start of my Granny story …)

When Eva Mansfield dropped the third stitch she cast her knitting aside in disgust. At this rate she was never going to get the jumper finished in time for her youngest granddaughter’s birthday. Besides, what was the point? The child would have grown out of it in six months; and anyway, with the cost of postage to Australia, it would be easier for them to buy her something out there.

She felt only blank despair. It’s as though someone was squatting on top of me, sucking all the life out of me, she thought. I can’t concentrate, I’ve got no energy, nothing gets done.

“Oh, Tiddles!” she said to the large black and white cat which lay sprawled on the hearthrug, “Whatever am I going to do, Tiddles?”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that!" the cat replied.

“I mean, it’s not a very dignified name, is it?” he continued, as Eva gawped, “But I suppose it’ll have to do for the moment. We haven’t much time. You want to be rid of this black oppression, right?”

“How … how do you know about that?” Eva quavered.

“Well, you’ve told me about it often enough! Now, there is a chance for you to escape, but it’ll involve you making a journey: quite a long journey; and meeting certain people. There are dangers involved, but I think you should take the risk”.

“Should I get my things together?” she asked, hesitantly.

“There’s no need. But you’d better take that knitting needle. It’s quite sharp: you might need it”.

“You mean as a weapon?”

“It’s all we’ve got; it’ll have to do for now”.

Suddenly Eva was transported back to her childhood, when she had loved the stories of Tolkien and C.S.Lewis and had dreamed that one day she too could go on a journey to a land of magic and wonder. But that had been years and years ago, before her Troubles had begun…

Quickly, she dismissed the last thought from her mind. With a greater sense of resolution than she had felt for many years, and without even bothering to get her coat, Eva Mansfield strode to the door and stepped out across the threshold.