WßD Chapter Thirty-Two ~ Sunday in Pershore

Windsor Street Days

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sunday in Pershore

I

I’M NOT exactly sure about what to make of things today. Perhaps it is because it is Sunday. Sundays can be good days, but they can also be not-so-good days, especially when on my own. I wish I was not so much a thinker. I know it is a family joke, and Dad would emulate that statue of ‘the thinker’, but it all goes much deeper than that. So, I find my best way is to escape into my own world, write jagged thoughts down, and somehow put them into a semblance of order.

That horrid morning, 25 May 2016, a Wednesday, still hangs around.14 June, likewise, although I was glad to read from the lectern that there is darkness now, but in the morning comes the light.

The car is the same. The family home is the same. Liverpool awaits, but feels hollow. That terrifying afternoon on Liverpool Crosby Beach, the winds, the sun, the crashing surf, the sense of being strangled. A stick. Find a stick. Carve the most important name in the sand.

There! Now, sit down. Allow the wind and the salt air to cleanse. Slowly at first, and then like a pincer movement, the name is washed away. It isn’t though. Mum’s name, carved in the sand, large and beautiful, is seen only by me, some seagulls, and whatever Deity abounds, if any.

Today, I realise that that day on the beach was exactly the same as that terrifying night in 2011 when I sensed that Dad was leaving. That was in the summer. Many conversations by landline followed into and through Autumn, and even into Winter.

Today, in Pershore, I’ll just write. It’s good trying to communicate with family. They are on a different planet. We are worlds apart.

Writing, though, is like a healing balm. I can use my imagination. Write what I see, write what I think, allow my imagination to slip back into childlike thoughts, an inverse of that peculiar incantation that always foxed me at school … the child becomes the father of the man.

II

The trees are on the turn

Summer is passing

A slight coolness now pervades,

There is a rustling in the leaves overhead,

A brittleness - as in kindling

not there in the greenery last week

The Sun is slow to depart

Lingering with the stunning skies

bewitching us each eve,

warming the hearts of gardeners

recalling the old lore …

Red sky at night shepherd's delight!...

… heaving a sigh of relief

A week or two is with us yet, perhaps!

… Before the cold snap sets in

And the weaklings in the shrubbery are

there in the evening

but gone in the morning,

or there in the morning

but gone by evening,

Ah! Such is Nature

the truth be told!

The dragonflies hover

over the garden pond.

Four-winged, emerald green

ethereal bodies

translucent …

Nature quietly reminds me

she was here way before

the three-speed office fan,

and will still be here

if all is gone

The water is still, deep, dark, warm

Beguiling, dangerously though, not!

An invitation …

To sit

To crouch

To ponder

Yes, ponder...

… at life above and below water...

A little 'armadillo' scuttles across the Cotswold stone

Pitching precariously on a sudden unseen ledge

And, with bated breath, I watch

And then I can't but help to poke my nose in

Pitching his end back up,

He, she or it, regaining grip

And I catch a glimpse of Toad

Oh, get away with you Toadie!

You've had plenty.

You won't miss that one, I'm sure!

And in my mind's eye, I catch Beatrix …

Of Potter fame

And Toad of Toad Hall

Ummh, well I always say that

Them that plays God

Is in for a sticky wicket

For sure

Oh, alright Toad

I won't do it again.

Anyway, I'm going in.

It's that very British hour.

Afternoon tea and toast,

And I'll throw crumbs into the pond

Your dominions - nay minions - love that, don't they!

They do indeed

HU-Hu-Ermm… I do too

I know. He-he

Be back shortly with the tray.

My sister's down the garden

At the industrial end

All lines, bean sticks and runs and hessian nets

And the hens are on the run

but safely penned in

Foxy won't get them this time

I ponder further …

My finger enjoys the ripples it creates

A little 'weather storm' they'll be thinking, under,

And, hey, guess what, Toad?

Oh, no. Don’t tell me … Finn's here.

Ever since he fell in, this place has never been

The same.

He keeps tickling me!

You’d better watch out.

Came home from school today

Deputy head Boy!

Haha! I know.

Don't worry. I hear he's confined to the sofa

But be warned, Toad!

Knowing Finney, he'll soon be out

So just make sure you all have your defences up

I think your kettle's boiling.

It is Toad. I'll go and bring the tray out

We'll have afternoon tea together, hey!

And Sam's made the scones

And Grandad's baked the bread

And… hey up Toad, Gran's coming back

Look lively!

The leaves gently settle back in place,

Resting on the warm summer breeze

Kissing the water's surface

Toad is safe

And Frog is down t’other end

Content to mind his part of the pond.

A pond skier takes advantage

skimming across water that

must, to him, her or it, seem like an ocean

Nature, supreme!

The whirl of four-winged dragonflies above

The galosh-splosh of wellington boots strolling by,

Reminding me to cover the seat before I sit down...

The summer shower was very brief but heavy

And there's nothing worse than sitting on a wet seat!

Who were you talking to?

No one!

Ermm … they’ll be coming to take you away!

Sisters!!!

End

Good! I feel easier now.
Come on, beauty, let’s purr back to ‘Chelters’,
and later on,
we’ll head up home to Liverpool.

Worcestershire is beautiful,
but let’s head back now
to our County,
Gloucestershire.

—

 Composed 4 September 2016

5 December 2021
All Rights Reserved


LIVERPOOL


© 2024 Kenneth Thomas Webb

Digital Artwork by ©2024 KTW © 2024 IBM

Composed 4 September 2016

Images all rights reserved to the author.