He died, young,
Though many have gone before,
The shock remains,
As if for the first time.
The community, silenced,
In unexpected grief,
Left thinking,
Pondering their own mortality.
April 26, 2009
On the premature death of a neighbour
April 19, 2009
April 11, 2009
A Loving God
In Italy this week
A loving God
Who is all powerful,
Killed off a couple
Of hundred people
In an earthquake.
They must have been
Evil, presumably?!
The bell tolled,
The faithful went to prayer
And their Leader sent a message
“Assuring us of his spiritual nearness,
Sharing the anguish”.
The bereaved I’m sure,
Would be comforted,
That the souls of the departed
Were fine,
Presuming they were
Good Catholics and
Regularly went
To confession,
The dead that is.
Some mercy was shown –
Survivors were found
Pleased that their names
Were not this time
On the celestial roll call.
The dead, Sofia, Carlo,
Anna, Francesco
Fictitious and fleeting,
Will be remembered for some years
By a plaque, itself destined
For destruction by some future
Wanton act of the same God.
The Orinoco Trail
In the morning the mist rolled down from the peaks
To mingle with the steam rising from the hot springs
That formed the headwaters of the Orinoco river.
The snows were still waiting to melt but we floated around the pools
Enjoying the scenery and the fact that we were warm
In spite of the obvious cool of the mountains.
Exploring the waters we were suddenly caught
In a current that left us powerless to resist;
Swept downwards we struggled to keep our heads
Above the torrent and to avoid the attentions of the rocks
That waited their chance at each bend.
In no time at all, it seemed, we found ourselves
Down the river and out at sea fighting huge waves
That pummeled us as much as had the river earlier in our journey.
The waves eventually grew smaller and we were washed
Onto a gentle sloping beach where we were able to recover.
Around us were exotic plants of all kinds
And above the beach the miracle of a terrace bar,
No illusion this but an invitation to partake.
Dripping back to our towels we picked up some
Valuables to barter for ice creams with the locals.
Wild water rapids we got licked!
The Starbucks Bubble
Sitting there sipping my tea on the indoor terrace
I was completely relaxed and the noises
That bounced off the skin of my bubble
Added to my sense of wellbeing.
The sounds were never quite prominent enough to intrude
But I could hear what they were.
Chairs moved, table tennis balls pinged and ponged,
People spoke and I could, I thought, detect
The faint whirring of the air-conditioning fans above,
Teaspoons clicked and straws sucked as footsteps went by.
I could see the rainwater running
Down the glass roof outside the bubble
But the sound of the rain was only in my imagination.
Climbers went slowly up and down the wall.
A man, who had been sat with his daughter
For at least ten minutes in front of me finally spoke:
“When is your first exam?”
The family eventually found me and the bubble burst .
Jardin Des Sports, Longleat Center Parcs, Easter 09
April 6, 2009
Center Parcs Longleat
The pool, providing you can find somewhere to plonk your stuff, is a good place to go when you arrive.
The queue of cars, when it was time to go to the villa, was long and with engines running not particularly environmentally friendly.
The villa, when you finally get there in the car, is a long way from the pool.
It’s a good job we have the car, because 50 camels worth of baggage would have taken a long time to carry the seemingly miles to the villa.
The beer, after we had returned the car, was very satisfying.
The queue, in the Parc Market, was highly frustrating when considering all I wanted was a pack of bacon for breakfast.
The bill, from the Parc Market, did not represent a single pack of bacon.
The rain, on the way to the bike hire place, was somewhat disconcerting.
The rain, when riding the bike back to the villa, was very wet and for those of us with glasses, obfuscating.
The hills, between the bike shop and the villa, were completely exhausting.
The glass of wine, back at the villa, was absolutely essential.
The cuddle with Anne, at the end of it all, was highly satisfying
Center Parcs, Longleat, Easter 2009.
April 5, 2009
y coliers
wyth awr i lawr i lwch,
uffern o le mewn tywyllwch;
eu tynged oedd syched hwch,
diffrwythwyd mewn diffeithwch.
gan alun davies
April 3, 2009
The bikers
I first notice the two motorcycles when they passed me on the M50 a little north of Newport, just after the Celtic Manor junction. I was on my way home from a few days in Cardiff with my sister Sue.
When they passed me I pulled to the left a little to let them by. The rearmost bike was weaving a little side to side, stretching his legs out and riding high on the saddle. It seemed as if he had had a long journey and was flexing his muscles.
They raced on ahead and I thought nothing more. Then a little further north I saw one of them on the hard shoulder of the motorway clearly in difficulty. Looked like some sort of engine trouble. I passed him quickly and again I thought nothing of it.
Then I came across the second bike. He had slowed down and was constantly looking in his rear view mirror for his chum. There was nothing I could do. He had not seen his companion pulling up and could not turn around to go back and look for him. On the motorway I had no way of telling him what had happened.
I quickly pulled ahead of the second bike and my life moved on. I imagine they found each other eventually. It felt to me as if the two bikes were a pair of ducks and one of them had been caught by a fox, the other one flapping around helplessly wondering what had happened to its mate.
March 31, 2009
The boiling anger of Davy Jones
What brought about the fury of that dawn?
An ire that kept the harbour’s ships at bay,
And hid the folk of town in narrow streets,
That rose above the battered beach cafe.
The birds unsettled, taunted by the waves,
Though blinding sand the elements’ ordeal,
The sea a boiling mass that overflowed
To crash upon the castle rocks at Peel.
The ocean’s cities in ill-disciplined parade,
Their towering sides, skyscrapers of the storm,
Disordered buildings ranged in disarray
With roads, deep troughs, that met no shape or form.
That Davy Jones had risen from his grave
Seemed certain to onlookers in the spray,
He chose to punish miscreants abroad
Who should have better meant to stay away.
Then when at last the wind had sung its tune,
The clouds moved on to play to other halls,
And fishermen returned to ply their lines,
From high upon the granite harbour walls.
March 17, 2009
Picture by Dex
Dex owns the Art Gallery at the corner of Occupation Road and Burton Road. This is one of his pictures. You can catch him on www.tapenoise,com
March 15, 2009
3 Games To Go
Its three games to go and the situation is tight at the top of the table. We travel in convoy to Mablethorpe. It is a beautiful spring day and everyone is in buoyant spirits. What’s more the opposition only has 6 players. Huh, a walkover we think.
Disaster. They score first. No problem. We can recover. After all there are still 55 minutes to go.
Aargh. They score again. These are good little players. Their six are better than our seven who seem to have no idea what to do with the ball today. They just stand there looking at it. Hmm. This ain’t going to be so easy.
Three nil and it isn’t even half time yet! What is going on? This isn’t the team we recognize. We bring on a couple of subs to ring the changes.
Half time and the manager gives the lads a roasting in his team talk. More substitutions.
The second half starts and there seems to be little difference to the quality of our game. I start composing dramatic bits of poetry in my mind. “The season’s hopes dashed. Crashed on the rocks of Mablethorpe sea front. ” Not that there are any rocks in Mablethorpe. It is sand as far as the eye can see.
Fifteen minutes to go. We score. Hooray. A glimmer of hope, a chink of light. Come on lads, you can do it. Nerves are on edge.
Ten minutes to go. The game is picking up. We score number two. Hooray. Come on lads you can do it.
Five minutes to go. Number three. Sighs of relief all round. I begin to feel a little sorry for the opposition who have been by far the best side for most of the game despite being a man down.
Two minutes to go. Amazing. 4 – 3. Now an agonising couple of minutes whilst they pile on the pressure. The defence holds. The final whistle blows. We have all aged five years but the title hopes are still alive.
Well done boys.
Real Ales
Abbot (5.0%) £3.00
Bass (4.4%) £2.85
Bombardier (4.3%) £2.85
Deuchars (3.8%) £2.70
Ruddles (3.7%) £2.45
Taylor’s Best (3.5%) £2.50
The Morning Star real ale tariff.
March 14, 2009
The last person to drive legally the wrong way down Cecil Street
As many of you will know Cecil Street, by the Turk’s Head pub, is a one way street that cannot be accessed from Newport.
Terry Mackown was the last person to drive down it legally coming from the Newport direction. He had dropped a friend off by the Newport Arch to buy some meat from the butchers. There used to be a butcher’s shop there before it became the Klogz shoe shop.
He pulled in down Cecil Street to wait for the friend. As he was parked there two workmen came and put up No Entry signs either side of the road. To my knowledge he was the last person to ever drive down that street in a Westerley direction.
Somewhat poingant methinks.
The Burton Road Strip
The strip,
Furious confluence of disposable society,
Magnet for irreverents,
Cruising ground for hungry souls,
Melting pot for a global fondue,
Curry, Chinese, fish and chips,
Full English breakfast,
Even pork pies and sandwiches
From the Shell garage.
On your way home from the pub,
You can satisfy your needs
On the Burton Road Strip.
March 13, 2009
Guest Beers Today
Batemans GHA (4.2%) £2.85
Dixons Diabolical (4.4%) £2.95
Grafton Lady Catherine (4.5%) £2.95
Adnams “The Bitter” (3.7%) £2.85
Spire Brewery Overture (3.9%) £2.85
Watch out for Irish beers next week for St Patrick’s Day!