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Leper Chapel - Mosaics of Time

Mudstone mosaics and jumbled fractures - an uneven puzzle waiting; holy stone with leper marks, dotted and spotted black. Ever expanding lichen rings with double oil-spotted rainbow; angular rust-like stains Testing the presence of time. Clenched into cracks Of weathered rocks and broken messages; scarlet snapdragons trailing their cardinal stems. Damp buttress of moss clinging, Festooning the flint; ink spots, stone measles, proud thistle commanding the base. Random yet structured, closely inter-twined cobwebs Fastened carefully to parched and pocketed stones. Chaotic yet ordered toad-like grotesque within; marking essences of devoted and hidden faces. Picture flints grinning their caramel coffee smiles amongst Anglian crags, embracing their forgotten cousins. Stephanie To see the inspiration for this poem and hear it being narrated at the remains of the Leper Chapel, Dunwich, visit this page from our Chronicles of Greyfriars project website.
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Let Me Play

Children at play filled with innocence, Trees in the playground where they hide. Running, shouting no cares in the world, Waves of freedom flows higher than the tide. In that playground stands a child all alone, Fraught with sadness, with nobody to play. His dejection surges as his tears threaten, Just wishing a shrill of a whistle would end the day. Being so alone is a solitary game, Thoughts of “what have I done” The shrills and screams of play, Ending a game for those that won. Standing all alone playtime is long, Children running all unaware, He stands still alone, Envy and sadness, he stands just to stare. Sheridan
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After a Week Off

Sarah, new to the ward, senses a friend in Nurse Nicole as she sits at the end of the bed, eyes closed and dread of the operation lessens; she knows that all will be well as trust replaces fear. Some of the other nurses bitch she doesn't fill forms properly she only washes her own cup but Matron squashes their cattiness jealousy can run rampant unless quickly curtailed. The doctors are pleased she is back some appreciate their task will be easier as her soothing hands find the place that needs reminding it is part of the whole and is free to join in the healing. Karen
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I'm off to Bury

I’m off to Bury’ she said. ‘Bury St Edmunds?’ I thought or did she mean to bury the dead. You/I coughed a little, but caught the sneeze passengers had come to dread, the virus of last resort. Clasping my hands either side of my face, I asked ‘Who has died?’ She looked aghast and replied ‘this isn’t the time, to joke about the crisis’. Covid in the UK locked down Divali and Eid, but Christmas survives. ‘I’m off to Bury’ she said. ‘Not to bury the dead, but to celebrate life’. Kevin
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King of the Woods

Soft green moss and arching brambles With desperate nettles shooting upright to light. Dense, strong and stable, yet soft delicate and gentle A squirrel runway extending arms, reaching limbs Of sun-drenched lime, mottled light barely touching. Fresh, yet decaying hands of friendship, A ladybird highway knitted together. Beneath a silhouette of darkness, A planet in itself.   by Jess and Stephanie A video showing how this poem was written can be found on the Resources page .
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Cardamine Pratensis

after Laurie Lee, ‘Milkmaid’ ‘Tender cress and cuckoo-flower: And curly-haired, fair-headed maids, Sweet was the sound of their singing’* A pretty name, the ‘cuckoo flower’, just one of many guises: ‘Our Lady’s smock’, or ‘fairy flowers’ that come in varied sizes. The flower, they said, could bring bad luck so rarely picked for remedies; but sometimes risked to use like cress to pepper up the lunchtime cheese. The ‘May flower’ tells us when it blooms while ‘coco plants’ confuse the mind, the rustic ‘milkmaid’ seems to show an image that is less refined. The name suggests a dainty wench, just like the flower, a pleasant sight, who tends the herd in shaded barn in frilly smock, all dazzling white. They say the blooming coincides with cuckoo’s call; they may be right but milkmaids conjure up the mood of summer’s idyll at its height. Lee’s marigolds and buttercups and ‘brimming harvest of their day’ reveal to us a bygone time, remind us of those country ways. Julia Duke *From a 15th or 16...
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Forever Searching

Search the walls Scan the corridors Express the highs Scribble the lows Writing explores The state of my mind.   Judith  
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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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