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Virus

The sun is shining
But lying a fate that awaits
for some of us.
An insipid virus waits
Ready to pounce
Unannounced.
Some will survive
Some will not
We do not know
if this is our lot.
In the meantime
The sun is shining

Barbara Wright


(photo credit: Daniel J. Schwarz via Unsplash)

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Who Is Saving The World?

The recycler, bicycler, bio-masser and solar paneller, the sustainable developer, the charity worker, the medics (sans frontieres?), fundraisers and carers, givers and listeners, growers of organics, designers of biodegradables. Genetic engineers? Surgeons and researchers, forgivers and forgetters, Billy the bug hunter, Immy the mathematician, Troy the paratriathelete, Wendy the wigwam maker. The ones who go last, the ones who smile, the ones who don’t want to argue about it, the ones who give up their seat, the ones who calm a storm, the ones who cook up a feast, the ones who sing praises, the ones who shine, Auntie Gwen and Malala…… ….and I drink water from a glass bottle. Sue Foster Image by Fernando via Unsplash .
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Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
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Mental Health

When is it really quiet? Underwater bubbles pop and sounds muffle. When drowning screams are choked by the deluge into mouth and larynx. Then there’s the sinking, the floating, the bloating. A Quakers’ meeting is quiet enough except for sniffs, breathing, the odd shuffle and the builders outside shouting and cursing about late cement. Then there’s catching up, and clicking back. Laying in clover and ox-eyes on a field is quiet but the wind wiffles leaves, whilst high up a buzzard screeches her woes. Does her mate listen? Then there’s the underground-scratching of moles. I meditate to find the quiet, swim to find stillness. I turn off radios, T.V., iphone, my mind. Yet cables buzz, aircraft streak across quiet skies plants and trees creak and sing as they grow. I seek the grail as I dance echoes of pain and joy I read my poems aloud, and then comes the silence. Sue Foster
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The Pandemic

Unprecedented Unprecedented Unprecedented Present distress repeated, repeated recent disease breathed present unprecedented, sent in coughs. Cough, cough, cough. This disease sent on the air. Cough, cough, cough. Unprecedented present breathed in unprecedented disease breathed out unprecedented hand-washing unprecedented deaths dent the present. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe out. Dented breathing. Cough. Present deaths unprecedented. Enough. Too many deaths. Too many people. Too many families. This time Covid19. Another SARS disease present. Unprecedented but not unexpected 2020. Sue  Foster
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Twenty-First Century Willow

I have always been proud of my body: lithe, supple, quite elastic. Watch me while I bow to reach my delicately painted toenails. I have always been supple. My sturdy trunk withstands the wind which gently stirs my slender limbs and sets me swaying, tossed like the ocean’s waves, rippling the fronds of my lime-green hair. Don’t waste your pity on me. I have a reputation for weeping but I am content with my lot. I am not one of those weepy women you love to despise. Snivelling, you call it. I have always been flexible. Don’t let that thought mislead you into imagining that I am easily led. Supple, flexible, I may be. Pliable, I am not. If you are inclined to stay, we may indulge ourselves in a little laziness. Rest a while beneath my boughs, see how I catch the sunlight in my hair and we will dip our toes together in the river’s flow. I am a little moody, a touch melancholy you might say, and inclined to droop. There are times, I admit, when the river flows by unheeding and I crave a li...
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S.A.D

The black dog Shook his weary head Stay in bed He said. The black dog Followed me again Munching biscuits Lost energies for meals. The black dog Didn’t go for walks For three weeks He stayed inside. Not answering his calls The black dog remained silent Until Spring. Chris
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‘R’ You Saving The World?

Some of us R trying: Recyclers, re-users and repairers; riders of bicycles and rev-ers of electric cars; reducers of emissions with bio-mass boilers, roof solar panels, and residents who use them, really sustainable developers,         with rainfall harvesters and run-off tanks; regular givers and those who limit usage of finite resources; radical learners who know what’s safe, not toxic nor wasteful; radiant fashionistas in natural fabrics, not man-made rayons; rich beauties who never use micro-beads in ‘products’; radgie gadgies who put their newspapers into the blue sulo; ruddy faced growers of organics who reject chemicals; reflective designers of biodegradables who create wrappings      and rubbish that rots rapidly; religious genetic engineers who’ve worked out the ethics; researchers who grow food with hydroponics; readable writers who explain global warming,      so oRdinaRy people understand; realistic politicians (The Gre...
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Sweet Diatoms

Sweet diatoms You make me smile Algal atoms Too small to see But for my eye Peering microscopically Your fiddly frames Of filigree silica Seem big to me Tim  
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Alone (with the birds)

I’m not good at numbers; words are more my thing but I dabble in statistics and the mathematics of probability. Chance I call it. I’m not often alone. Not often silent, except that companionable silence when you’re lost in your thoughts, but in good company. Surprised all at once by a squawk, a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds, minding its own business, today I’m out practising, sitting alone in the sunshine. Together, we come here often, striding up the cliff-top, dawdling through Kensington Gardens, pointing out fading displays of dahlias and falling leaves. We order americanos at the café, with a jug of hot milk on the side – ‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make our stay last a bit longer. Today, though, it’s just coffee for one. I consider a cappuccino, a break from routine; old habits are hard to break. ‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’. Would I change if I were left alone? The moorhen seems content. Does it ponder the meaning of life? A seagull soars into the blue – doe...
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Stone Souls

Abbey stones Hold tales of the untold A rich tapestry of thoughts, Echoes and patterns and times ancient by. Of weathered landscapes Broken angel wings, Jumbled thoughts and crumbling terracotta Secrets lie beneath. Of drifting monks And whispering clouds Beneath us lies Hidden skulls The stone souls.   b y Art Branches recovery project group
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