Eden Rock', by the Cornish poet Charles Causley.

They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock: My father, twenty-five, in the same suit Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack Still two years old and trembling at his feet. My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat, Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass. Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light. She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue. The sky whitens as if lit by three suns. My mother shades her eyes and looks my way Over the drifted stream. My father spins A stone along the water. Leisurely, They beckon to me from the other bank. I hear them call, 'See where the stream-path is! Crossing is not as hard as you might think.' I had not thought that it would be like this.'

Ozymandias today, by Peter G. Shilston

 "My names is Ozymandias, king of kings.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair". (Shelley)

(to be recited in a silly voice)

Last summer I saw Ozymandias. It was on

the west bank of the Nile, across

from Luxor. His visage was

even more shattered than when

Shelley's friend saw it, but

the archaeologists had stuck it back on

his patched-up shoulders. I didn't see

any inscription, but maybe it had been moved

to the Cairo museum. The bit about

there being nothing around but sand is however

completely wrong, because these days

the area is thick with hucksters selling the

most appalling junk to the parties of tourists, so

when you think of it, the locals should really be grateful to

Ozymandias, because he hadn't put up the statue, the region

would be even poorer than it is, and it

 set me wondering how Adolf 

Hitler might be perceived a few thousand 

years from now, and all the other tourists seemed

 to be having equally solemn thoughts as they 

gazed on what is styled the "colossal wreck", and I even saw genuine 

despair in some faces, but maybe they

 were only wondering how long they could last out until they found the 

next lavatory.

Beyond the horizon, by Peter Morford

 From the air the land would have looked like a target. The bullseye was a circular lake, ringed by the valley and in turn surrounded by the tropical forest. Beyond: the mountains.

The village straggled round the water; a collection of, perhaps, a hundred round tents made of saplings and covered with layers of leaves

It is high noon. In the Chief’s tent the man on the bed was saying, “I’m an old man now, soon I will hand over my spear to you, my sons. Your duty is to keep the dead Elders’ traditions. Nobody will stray from our world. We live in this paradise. The lake gives us fish. The earth and the forest give us meat and fruit. We are happy and undisturbed. In the mountains are devils and evil spirits. Beyond is the end of the world- nothing. If you went there you will become nothing.”

The young man has heard the words many times. He closed his eyes, telling himself that the wisdom of countless ancients is based on ignorance. Where is the end of the world? In his dreams he wants to go there for himself. He has a plan.

Early next morning he crept out of his tent without waking his parents and siblings. The moon has gone. It was very dark but his hunter’s eyes saw well enough by the light of the stars. With his bow, arrows, stone knife and some food he trotted towards the faint glimmer of the rising sun. He reached the river, walked along its wandering shore, Was he being followed? Adam looked back. If he were caught now he would be punished for defying the ancients. Being the chief’s grandson would not protect him from the anger of the gods.

 He walked until the sun was overhead. After cooling himself in the river he ate some of his food and slept through the hottest part of the day. When he woke it was cooler.

He climbed hills high above the river. He had not reached the end of the world yet. As far as he could see were more hills and forests. Dare he enter them? The river was wider and deeper now. In places it ran in deep gullies far below his feet.

Days passed. 

From, the top of another hill he caught sight of a huge lake, glimmering blue. There was nothing beyond it. So that must be the end of the world. He descended the slope and found himself looking down on a beach far below him. He was fascinated. The water was alive, white foamed. Their lake was nothing like that. Then he saw something on the water.

 A huge canoe moving faster than he had ever seen. It was white. It growled. It made smoke. Tiny things moved on it. As it came nearer he saw they were men in strange clothes. Many, many people. What were they?

He hid from their sight and shivered in the heat.

The missing vicar and the lady nobody saw, by Peter Shilston

 The people of the village hardly ever attended services at the church, so when the vicar went missing, it was a long time before anyone noticed; and then everyone assumed he had simply gone away for a while, as he had often done in the past. 

   In point of fact, he had died, and his posthumous punishment was this: he was condemned to conduct midnight services to which no-one would ever come, and preach an identical sermon to rows of empty pews. The villagers sometimes heard strange nocturnal sounds issuing from their church, but none of them bothered to investigate.

   Nearby in the same village there lived a strange lady, who never appeared in public. Some people wondered whether anyone lived in her house at all; but in fact she was a hopeless insomniac: she always felt exhausted and was perpetually yawning, which made her so ashamed that she never ventured out. She would lie awake all night, despairing.

  But one night she exclaimed out loud, "Oh, I would do anything for a good night's sleep!", and at that moment she was permitted to hear the faint sounds of the vicar's midnight service, and something induced her to rise from her comfortless bed and totter round to the church. She sank into a pew just as the vicar started his sermon, and within a few seconds she was fast asleep. The vicar was pardoned the rest of his penance.

    

Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock on your door on a feverish night

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or

Even just an ice cube to slide down your

Supple spine and – burning –

Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside

Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,

But I did not raise my hand

To knock.

I answered, though.

Anyway.

I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we

Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.

And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,

Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then

Your feet could not find the bottom, and

Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.

And we swam perhaps a bit too

Close.

So.

I am still holding the pitcher, and

The door is still open,

And I am unquenched

But hesitate to drink.

Old St. Chad's, by Peter Shilston

 (The church of St. Chad's in Shrewsbury fell down at the end of the 18th century, leaving only one small chapel standing. This is usually kept locked, but last week I found some work being gone on the roof, so I bluffed my way in, took some photos and then wrote this poem) 

.............................................................................................................................................

"Mind the uneven floor!"

called the big workman from the scaffolding

after admitting me - I fancied with some reluctance -

into the chapel where no-one had worshipped

for more than two hundred years.

Inside, silence and dirt.

Neglected in a corner, an ancient font

perhaps donated by some henchman of the Conquerer.

No holy water there now; just a receptacle

for litter and fag-ends.

On the north wall, a monument

of some Eizabethan family,

the inscription obscured by planks.

And laid upon trestles, or propped against the wall,

coats of arms: heraldic hatchments.

I saw the raven of the Corbets: sable on gold, but now

swathed in cobwebs. Others, ruined beyond repair,

rotted by damp, eaten by rats.

So where are they now, the old Shropshire families,

Montgomery and FitzAlan,

and Leybourn and Pulteney?

Gone forever, 

dust to dust, ashes to ashes,

even their shields illegible,

Sic transit goria mundi.

Resolutions, by Peter Morford

   A Victorian ancestor of mine was known for his seasonal ritual. While he dressed informally for Christmas lunch he always wore a dinner jacket for the Boxing Day supper. Mary and the girls were in their best dresses because it was the time for New Year Resolutions in the Brodie house. 

  He would stand up, holding the cane which he called his badge of office, and say something like,  “Now girls, it’s almost the New Year. Time to give up your bad habits and challenge yourselves to be better young women. Here are your cards. Write your resolutions. I want to see them at breakfast tomorrow. 

"I don’t want silly or trivial commitment. Last year, Winifred said she would stop swearing. She, who never uses bad language anyway. And you, Dorothea, you said you would give up the delight of your life – embroidery. Rubbish. We all know you have always hated it. And Kate – I don’t want you to declare that you will read Ouida’s trashy novels. My library contains hundreds of worthy reading.

“Neither do I want the impossible. You may want world peace, a cure for small-pox or a replacement for the Pope? You have no influence. Those are NOT resolutions, they are wishful thinking.

“No, ladies, you must be practical. If you smoked, or drank alcohol or rode bicycles or wore bloomers – they are the sort of things you should want to give up. Look into your behaviour and we can all help each other tomorrow. Do you waste your allowances on fripperies? What about a secret vice? Are you too familiar with the servants? Your mother and I will bring our pledges because I want my family to be honest. Go to your rooms. Dismiss!”

   When they were young the girls dreaded this confessional ritual. Usually two would gang up against the third but as they unconsciously took turns to be persecuted they never let their girlish tiffs get serious. Now, released from the dinner table they prepared themselves for the parental challenge. They giggled over their collection of pledges which were so important at this time of the year.

  Next morning at eight sharp the echo of the gong died away and the family settled itself at the table. Two maids trotted in with the porridge. Mary and the girls waited for Father to pick up his spoon so that they could start to eat.

   By 8.40 they had finished their grills – bacon for the girls, kippers for him. Mother swallowed her tonic tablets and Father stood up. “You have brought your resolution cards with you? Pass them to me.”

   He put on his glasses and read. He frowned. He scowled. Shouted – “This is not funny Kate. I am ashamed of you for writing such a thing.”

   He threw the card into the fire. Dorothea’s card, The fire. Then the youngest, Winifred. She hardly dared to look. The fire.

   “What did they say Hamish?” his wife asked.

  “It’s outrageous. All of it. If I thought my daughters were serious – I don’t know what I would do. He paused. And what are your resolutions Mary?”

   Hesitatingly, Mother passed her card to Mr Brodie. He read. “That’s better,” he said. “ 'Be more understanding of my husband’s problems.' ”

   “Kate, Dorothea and Winifred – there will be no prizes this year for any of you. You’ll receive four strokes of the cane and retreat to your rooms. He walked slowly round the table, tapping each shoulder lightly, as one bestowing a damehood. “Go,” he said. They went.

   Mary raised a questioning eyebrow. Brodie, a man controlling himself with dignity said, “They all want to seduce the curate!”

   “What is your resolution, Hamish? He showed her his card.

   “Ooh Hamish, we’ve never done that!”