Clouds over Norwich Market

A sudden grey sky 

turns noon to dusk.

Rain plunges down,

people swarm

to reach the cover

of brightly painted

striped roofs.

Murmurs and groans

smother the air.

Squawks and wails 

from unhappy tots

pierce through the 

fast, heavy pitter-patter

as water pounds

the metallic canopies.

Herded through a maze

of darkened alleys,

jackets rub

elbows and shoulders. 

Toes kick heels.

Squish, push, 

bump and poke.

Feet shuffle,

side-swiped 

by rolling wheels.

Wet handbags

smack into chests.

Stray droplets, 

from soaked hair 

and saturated hoods,

splash faces.

Aromas of 

chilled brine

pungent copper 

sweet malt 

dewy-botanical 

saccharine citrus 

bitter sulfur 

salt and vinegar,

swirl and waft out 

behind a sea of backs.

Steam rises 

as kettles boil,

bacon sizzles,

sausages spit. 

Scarves and baskets 

hang on hooks 

up high, 

a wicker coffin?  

Could it be?

Search for a pocket 

of space to breathe. 

© Nichola Lovell 

I Am West Runton

I am West Runton

I am the old nag that your father lifted up placing you high on my back, flies buzzing all around.

I am the fossil found by your children, as they wander in and out of my cold wet puddles, with coarse sand sticking to their feet.

I am the cold flint that you turn over to reveal the pattern and smooth bottom of a 2 million year old sea urchin.

I am the cold east wind that blows, lifting the sand and blasting your face, in your eyes, and up your nose.

I am the sea with my waves rushing and crashing onto the shore, retreating with a mouthful of pebbles only to throw them down in the next wave.  

I am the smell of hot chocolate that wafts down my shore, from the café half way up the hill, delivered in white china mugs, to warm your hand. 

I am where you can stand and watch the wind turbines turning slowly in the wind, waves crashing around them circled by gulls.

I am West Runton, I was here long before man walked upon my shores, and I will be here long after man stops walking upon these earthly shores.

Gill Ashton

In My Dream of Absolute

I am in a dream

I am a flame

I see my home

as the lawgiver’s lease

comes to an end.

I am confused

by buds and wild fungi

I can taste the leaves

in the blue arboretum.

I am an imprint…

I can hear his violin

in the baroque grassland

of imitation colours.

I am in a barouche

across the barley fields

under a riot of blue

I can smell summer –

I am with our dingo

I hover in the mirror

of my dream into the absolute -

And I fall.

By ©M.C. Gardner 08-06-2016

A CROWDED SHELF

Oh, that one's my favourite of Bert

Next to him, our youngest child, Eve.

Something to do with her heart -

They did all they could, but

 She went before him.

Tommy now, he was a lad,

Big and strong, and much taller than me,

He went off to learn farming,

And never came home

To Norfolk.

He live s up in Yorkshire now,

Selling animal feed in the Dales,

He’s married with sons of his own,

I don’t like to push,

He’s so busy.

Bert and me on our wedding day,

‘Course no frills, it was war time.

He was my soldier boy, and

 I was his sunshine girl.

Tommy was on the way.

My friend Dot on an outing to Cromer,

Such a wind! It blew up our skirts,

We had ice cream and I broke a heel.

Me and her were really close,

But she’s gone now.

Here’s one of my brother Reg,

Came to me when wife Ivy died,

But he was already quite poorly,

We buried him near Bert,

For the company.

That’s my niece June, lovely girl,

Came over a few months ago.

Said I should get a computer,

To stay in touch – I said June,

In touch with who?

She said, with the world Aunty May,

I said June, that’s a wonderful thing,

But I talk to my pictures each morning,

And what’s more,

They don’t go away.

©Lyn McKinney 20^th July, 2016

Santa

I stormed in through the back door to find my mom in the kitchen.  Steam was rising from boiling pans on the stove.  She bent down to check whatever was in the oven.  Absently, without turning around, she said, “Dinner will be about 10 minutes, go and wash up.”

In a tone that demanded attention, I said, “First, I need to ask you something.”

My mom turned to look at me, as I leaned my kite up against the wall near the door.  

“Uh oh, have you and Gabe had a fight?”

I swung around to meet her gaze.  “No!  Well ... sort of.  We were talking about Santa and he said Santa wasn’t real.  I told him he was, and he told me that everyone in the second grade knew Santa wasn’t real.  And he was laughing at me!” 

My mom made a sort of humming sound, bit her lip as she pulled out a dining chair and turned it to sit down in front of me.  I had a bad feeling, especially when she leaned forward and grabbed one of my hands in hers. 

“Nikki, we’ve been wondering when to tell you, we should have told you before anyone else could, uh, how can I put this ...” 

She took a deep breath and my mouth flew open. 

“Oh my gosh!  Santa Isn’t real?”  The words came out barely a whisper. 

My mom shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t.”

“What!  Why say that he is then?  Why are there stories about him, movies and presents and cookies?”

Her arm came up and snaked around my waist and pulled me closer to her. 

“Santa is for little kids, Nik.  You’re growing up and sooner or later you were going to have to be told the truth and I guess today’s the day.”

The shock horror forgotten for the moment, pain and anger welled up inside me. “Why lie in the first place?  Why make kids think that Santa’s real when he’s not?  I don’t understand that!”

“It’s a shock when you find out, I know.  Everyone goes through this.  I believed in Santa when I was little too, but I had to find out, when I was old enough, that he wasn’t real.”

“That’s mean!”  Tears started to fill my eyes, and my throat tightened. 

I couldn’t believe I’d been lied to by my parents and ... well, everyone!

“Oh Nik, you’re growing so fast.  I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.  But, Santa is a way to explain to small children about Christmas and to get them excited about Christmas.  Just because Santa isn’t real, doesn’t mean you stop getting presents.”  Her eyebrows lifted, a soft smile touched her lips and she wiggled my hand as she tried to coax a smile out of me.  

I didn’t feel much like smiling.  I was devastated.  

Then another thought occurred to me.  “Is the tooth fairy real?”

She grimaced, “No, sweetheart, I’m afraid not.” 

“So ... Tinkerbell and ... the forest fairies?”

She shook her head, with a sadness in her eyes.

A shuttering gasp escaped me as tears started to fall down my cheeks.  I stepped back and pulled my hand from my mothers and slunk off to my room.  Feeling bewildered and betrayed by everyone I knew.  I could hear Gabe’s voice echoing in my head, Everyone in the second grade knows that Santa isn’t real, moron!

I was so upset my insides hurt.  No Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy or Tinkerbell ... what was there left to dream about?

© Nichola Lovell  July 17th 2016

The Book

The Book

The binding is split, idly, by a ragged thumbnail.

Lazy in the corner, the ladybird's

echo on every slim, neatly stacked book.

Peter has a ball. Jane sees the ball. I see

 a blue ribbon and a white sun dress, a neat centre parting

and a fixed grin; an idyll in pastel.

Monday morning on her lap

safe, curled amidst the scent of laundry

and home baking.

The jumbled shapes rearrange beneath a determined finger

into sounds and words and finally

into whole worlds

Rhonda July 2016

The Blue Scooter

THE BLUE SCOOTER

Lizzie whizzed around the block on her blue metal scooter. She loved it so much, and there was nothing to beat going at speed and feeling the wind through her hair.  She felt free and alive.  She knew the rules though, her mum had told her as she left the house ‘Don’t go over the road away from the block or you will go to bed early.’ From where Lizze was, spinning round and round on the pavement on her side of the road, the houses on the other side looked new and exciting.

Lizzie arrived at the back gate. She was so thirsty, she barely paused to prop the scooter against the outside wall before she ran down the path.  The gate slammed behind her leaving her precious scooter completely out of sight.

Lizzie opened the door with such vigour it made her mum cross. ‘I’ve told you not to come in the door like that – you’ll have it off its hinges! For goodness sake, slow down!’

Lizzie grabbed the glass off the worktop and hung on the taps as she was so parched she guzzled the water. Then, newly on fire, she banged the glass down and skipped to the back gate, anxious to return to her scooter.

Lizzie flung open the gate. She looked left and right. There was no scooter. Devastated, she ran to the corner of the road, expecting to see a neighbourhood child playing a joke on her but there was no one, nothing. She ran back to her mum, crying, red-faced, her clothes damp from her tears.

‘Someone’s taken my scooter,’ she wept.  Her mum’s tone changed instantly, ‘Oh dear, love, I expect you’ve left it somewhere.’ If this was meant to be comforting, it wasn’t. Taking Lizzie by the hand, she led her of the back gate. They both looked out expectantly. No scooter. ‘Perhaps someone’s borrowed it,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let’s hope it will turn up.’

Back in the kitchen, Lizzie’s mum sat her in a chair and gave her a rare chocolate biscuit to pacify her.

Jane July 2016