More, by Georgia Kelly

 The clamoring cries cannot be heard

through the iron-clad gates

where brazen brass bottles

are pushed into the gaping holes

of biscuit-crumbed beards.

Among the silver spoonfuls

they tell tales in libraries

laden with the likes of Dickens:

Please sir, can I have some more?

met only with tremors

of froth-filled melodic laughter.

Beyond the metal mansions

appointed cellulite speakers

snivel black vapur of bile

fogging up mosaic screens

feeding empty words

to small salivating mouths.

The lack of this 

the lack of that.

Pudding served with  an apology.

Their silver spoons turn to lead

in impoversished hands.

Please Mum, can I have some more?

met only with the trembles

of barren bellies and

mother's quivering lip.

There's no more.

and Big ben's chime is eerily silent when it's time for supper.

Resurrection, by Peter Morford

I was feeling rather pleased with myself. Work had gone well that morning; the sun was shining and tomorrow was Saturday. I was sitting in my favourite cafe enjoying my Spanish omelette. Joan, the waitress knew me well enough to ensure that mature cheese would be melted on top, that the salad would be copious and crisp, the tea strong enough for three cups and that my Neapolitan ice cream would be garnished with golden syrup.In an otherwise crowded restaurant I had a table to myself, room to open up The Times and struggle with the crossword.

I was halfway through both puzzle and omelette when I realised Joan was standing at my shoulder, saying, “Sir, would you mind it this lady joined you. We’re rather full you see".      I looked up. A woman, middle-aged in a dark suit and black hat waited for my decision.

 I could have said – “I’d rather not be disturbed,” but of course I smiled a little grimly and said she’d be welcome. Both women thanked me for my kindness and sacrifice and I went back to tackle 17 across.

“You must be one of the regulars here,” the woman suddenly said. I admitted that I was usually here on Fridays.

“That’s why I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “I come earlier than this usually, and it’s on Mondays.”

I said something or other and rejoiced in the silence until: “I came here to cheer myself up. It’s been a trying morning I’m afraid,” she said as I tidied up my plate and pouredout some tea.

The waitress was back to take the lady’s order for a ploughman’s lunch and coffee. I ordered ice cream with golden syrup, because it was Friday.

I realised that lady was speaking again. I looked at her directly for the first time. She was dressed like a woman of business, black trouser suit, dark blouse, no jewellery. Her lipstick was generously but unevenly applied and her mascara had smeared. A spray of reddish hair had escaped from her hat.

“Yes, I’ve come to cheer myself up,” she said again. “I had a funeral this morning. It was not a big affair on account of the lockdown.”

She must have drawn comfort from whatever trite reply I made. She caught me glancing at her wedding ring.

“Not my husband. He died ten years ago. It was the real love of my life this time. The most fulfilled relationship I have ever had. He was wonderful.”

She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. Joan delivered the lady’s lunch, hoped she’d enjoy, scampered off.

“My name’s Mary – Mary Mackay. But I’m not Scottish. And you?"

“Jack Smith” I lied. She offered me her damp hand. She squirted mayonnaise on her meal and herself, sipped her coffee and was ready to talk again.

“My great satisfaction is that I was with him at the end. I know he appreciated it. After 10 years where else would I be but with him, holding him right up to the last breath?”

She took a mouthful, chewed fast and resumed. “Yes, Gilbert died peacefully in my arms.”

“That must have been comforting for you both,” I suggested.

“We always communicated so well. We never had an argument. He was a loving and true friend.”

“I’m glad,”

“I sometimes thought he was communicating between me and my husband. I even realised after a while that he somehow had my husband’s personality, was even my husband reborn.”

What could I say to that? I wisely grunted. Joan was back with my ice cream. “Was your ploughman’s OK?” she asked. Mrs Mackay said it was just right.

“And where’s Gilbert this morning, Mrs MacKay?”

“In the cemetery.”

“He was such a wonderful dog,” said Joan as she gave me the bill.

I thanked Mrs MacKay for her company; and Joan for her attention, and hurried back to my office for an afternoon’s work.

A Legend Retold, by Peter Shilston

When Robin Hood met King Richard the Lionheart he failed to recognise him. This wasn't surprising, since Richard had only stayed in England a few weeks before setting off on the crusade. To complicate matters further, Richard didn't speak a word of English, and of course the Merrie Men didn't know any French. The upshot was that they thought the King was just some stray renegade knight, probably up to no good, and ordered him to hand over his arms and equipment. Things got even worse after that .....

Boy on a horse by council flats, by K. S.

Diet, by Peter Morford

When Dr Bell retired he realised he would have to keep out of his wife’s way during the day. After all, she was used to having the house to herself – alone that is, except for the constant flow of WI members for coffee, Ladies’ groups for lunch and sewing groups for conversation.
  At first, the retired doctor bought himself a glorified garden shed, 12 x 12, insulated, heated, coffee maker in obedient reach. This didn’t work too well because when the female hordes descended, he would all too often be called on to collect stragglers, meet Mrs so and so who urgently but unreasonably wanted to meet him, or use his male muscle to unscrew lids. His answer was to go out.
Walk a mile to the town and enjoy coffee in the Hospice Coffee and Bookshop. Old friends, patients and colleagues would be there. Soon, refreshed, he could set off for a longer walk, lunch in The Swan and head for home when the coast was clear. Like many a comfortably-off retiree, he was mean about his spending. Waterstones were there to tempt him, but he told himself that he had much more choice in a second-hand bookshop, especially if it were a charity. Happily admitting to being a parasite, he collected on the cheap.
  One day, in the Hospice Shop, the manager joined him at his table where he was reading a book he intended to buy.
“You spend a lot of time in here, Dr Bell. How would you like to volunteer an hour or two per week. The books are not in perfect order, but you’d soon fix that.”
Bell stirred his coffee and pretended to think for a moment.
“OK. Monday and Wednesday mornings any help?”
“I’m grateful.” Dr Bell was now a Friend of the Hospice.
Very soon his hour or two became almost a daily duty. Then it became four days a week. His wife barely noticed because the summer tournaments had started.

He only read novels these days. When he took over, they were arranged in rough alphabetical order. Sometimes, to his annoyance, Frank Herbert would be standing next to Frayn; Hardy among the Ts. He set about curing this untidiness. Very soon customers remarked on how nice everything was – except the bottom shelf. He was upset by that area of disorder. He knew that every charity shop had no idea how to handle what he called non-books. Who brought them in the first place? Those gardening books were Dad’s Christmas presents, a few years ago. Since then his back has collapsed and he had to smuggle the books to charity. The aged road atlases; expensively self-published memoirs and generously-advanced politicians’ autobiographies had very limited shelf life. Worse still, were the ghosted footballers’ and actors’ stories; business and Self-improvement books, written by people who feel they have the divine right to tell us how to run our lives. The worst clutter, according to Dr Bell, was the gluttony of the cookery books. Most of us are too fat already. Then there are the diet gurus. Go Vegan; starve two days a week, live on seaweed and carrots; drink white wine. Diet or you die. The unwanted books collected dust and took up valuable selling space. The people who support the hospice wanted to read stories. For them the whole bottom shelf could be pulped.
   Dr Bell agreed. With no qualms, he removed a few, then a lot, day by day. Kind supporters brought more in. He suspected Oxfam when he saw an old National Trust publication which he had kindly slipped onto their shelf a week before.

Prometheus on his rock, by Martin White

Come in. come in. Welcome. I don’t see many people this days. Here let me give you some water. You must be thirsty after that long climb up the mountain. Beautiful Isn’t it ?

Sweet smelling herbs at this time of the year. And those magnificent eagles flying above. Did you see any vultures. No? That’s a mercy. We can do without vultures, I can tell you. So want do you want with me? I am very old now.. I live very simply as you can see. I keep myself in isolation now . I don’t think I would be welcome in the world of men in these tattered clothes .I forage away on the mountain and that gives me enough to eat. And of course I still have this, This little fire in this pit. I have to be very careful to keep it alight.

That flame has caused me a lot of trouble I can tell you. I spend a lot of time watching it pondering on those happenings all that time ago .But perhaps that is why you are here? To hear my story. I expect you know about my fifteen minutes of fame. Well it was more than fifteen minutes I can tell you. Thirty years on this rock. chained with heavy metal shackles. Look you can still see the scars on my wrists and ankles. And when the sun rose , that great vulture came with a terrible flapping of wings, and a cry that sounded as if it came from the depths of hell. That sharp beak pecked at my innards every day, every day for thirty years. I was in agony I can tell you. And every night I lay there waiting for the pain to subside  as my organs healed and I was able to have an hour or so of some respite. But when the sun rose the it all started again.  Back came that monstrous bird, pecking and gouging. I thought it would never end.

All this came about because of a disagreement the Great One, Zeus, He Who Had To Be Obeyed. When my brothers and I were giving gifts to men, he told us not to give them fire. I could see that men would never thrive denied this power. If it were up to Zeus he would have left them as clay. I suppose he was frightened that one day men would forget him and all the other gods. Talk about ego! But I knew I had to do something. And so one night when all the gods were asleep I stole into the temple where the divine flame burned, lit a taper  and smuggled it out past the keepers of the flame. They were all asleep they never saw me. As the sun rose the next day I gave the taper to the race  of men, and they had fire! 

Well, when Mr High and Mighty  saw what I had done he went into one of his rages. 

“Prometheus” he roared,”You‘ve gone too far this time, with all your tricks and subterfuges.“ And the next thing I knew here I was chained to this rock. And all my troubles and torments began.

When I thought about it, and I had a long time to think about it, I came to see the Great One had a point. Yes, men made iron with fire, which they could use for making ploughshares. But they also used the iron to make weapons to kill each other. That I did not foresee. But even that was Zeus’ doing. In his rage he had Pandora fashioned and the silly girl let all the evils of the world out of that jewelled box she was supposed to take care of. Men certainly got their fill of jealousy and greed. She a whole lot of disease was released as well and that’s causing a lot of trouble. But men also used to sit around their fires at night. And that’s when a lot of knowledge got shared I am sure.They learned to communicate with each other, and tell stories and have dreams.That’s how they started to build great civilisations. Perhaps Clever Clogs one was right, perhaps men were not ready for such a powerful tool, perhaps they lacked wisdom, and things would get out of hand. 

But I could not see why I had to suffer so. But once he gets into one of his rages anything can happen, and usually does. Well at long last the Great One must have relented. One beautiful morning I slept late, that was unusual. When I woke the sun had risen quite high in the sky and all was quiet, except for the rustling of the trees, water bubbling out of that spring there and lovely birdsong all around. My chains lay broken on the ground. In front of me was a man sitting there, holding a massive sword. He was not exactly old, but not young either. Well built. He said something about looking for the golden apples. Could I help? Some task he had to complete. I think he was an apprentice god, or some such thing. Hercules he said his name was. Anyway he had shot the vulture and freed me from my chains. I thanked him and told him I couldn’t help him find his apples. He looked a bit disappointed and went on his way. But best of all I was free of all that torment and I never saw a vulture again. I often wonder if he found those apples.

I have had a long time to reflect on what what Mister Know it All was trying to teach me. I think it was humility. Not that he does very well in that department either. So I live quietly here. I am able to see what men are doing in that world of theirs and it doesn’t seem to be going very well, does it? Sometimes people said I had the gift of forethought. Well that’s as may be. The way I look at it that in the world of men pride has taken hold, arrogance even, and a bit of humility would not go amiss. But I don’t know how to tell them this. I think they should sit down for a while and work it out for themselves. Perhaps you can suggest it to them when you go back down?

May, by Adrian Perks

Come now May, you stupid month, slipped away
into the lost dreams of consciousness.
I'm aware of the days but not the date.
I'm aware mostly of the hours. Love in quarantine.
A lonely boy sits in the field, waiting for his girl,
the few moments that they have got.
He picks flowers for her, but they cannot touch.
It's lots like this that pull at the heart
of the lonely poet who cannot write
words to sum up the boredom of this,
the frustration, the comfortableness that he has got.
the walks in the park that he enjoys
the trees that overgrow the path,
full of blossom, and flowers,and the lost teddy bears staring out of windows..