The Four Seasons and The Four Winds ~ 3rd Edition (2023) Prelude and 19 Warton Street

Blackpool Tower - Photography by Kristophers Ozolins through Unsplash - perfectly capturing that which I passed each day to work and greeted me each evening on the return through this magical year of four seasons during 2009-2010. KTW

TƒS & TƒW 2023

LIFE AWAKENS


Prelude

To the Reader, from the Seasons

Worry Not, dear Reader,
We change our guise as befits the Clime We bring you
We are Winter, Autumn, Spring and Summer
We are the Season, Four
Yet, within each of us dwells a myriad Personalities.

And Worry Further Not, dear Reader,
We are the Four Winds, the brothers of our Sisters
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.
We too change our guise as befits the Clime We bring you
We are the North, the South, the West and the East Winds.
We complement our Sisters

And, again, within each of us dwells a myriad Personalities, a myriad Temperaments
We bow to none EXCEPT He Who commanded that We ‘be still’
And We obeyed Him

And the people looked on in amazement.

Who is this, that even the winds and the waves obey Him?

Dear Reader, Worry not nor be fretful in your thinking
For We are the siblings Twelve
We appear in many guises, as occasion most befits Us
There is a Merging
Times you will observe us in our female
Times, other, you will observe us in our male
Times other still, you will observe a Merging of female and male


Januar Februar März April Monat Mai Juni Juli August September Oktober November Dezember



Reader

I need solicit you with politeness, not!
I AM NATURE

We are Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring

We are the West Wind, the South Wind and the North Wind… we apologise for the absence of our brother the East Wind

I am the East Wind. I listen not to my brothers. I do, though, have an understanding with our sister Winter… read on

I Am NATURE. I answer only to my Creator

THE FOUR SEASONS

and

THE FOUR WINDS


Blackpool and Coastal Towns en Route

Part I

Blackpool 2009

Tonight is the first night of winter.
It is cold in Lord Street,
The rainbow bunting hangs dank,
The rainbow flags flutterless,
and in the morning
there will be a heavy dew on the cars,
The harbinger of ice and frozen locks,
and welded wiper blades,
from the previous night’s rain.

A hood walks ghostlike by…
Harry Potter and Hogwarts,
slouching,
bemoaning the bitter cold;
a dementor …
angered by that Indian Summer
that left us with a crimson-orange
sky tonight,
Now an ice blue hue.

And so, back to sucking fags
in the cold dark doorway,
with music beating inside Cruze Bar
Gasp of cold air,
The approaching first frost of the year,
Caught by the gaudy pink and neon lights
on the corner of the first floor;
“no wonder the seats were vacant”,
Angie wails.

But at 16 Lord Street
on the first and second floors,
The lights, though dimmed,
Glow
and defy Winter’s icy breath
upon ancient Victorian
brittle single window panes.

The doorbell chimes again.
Mark quietly opens and smiles
to yet another refugee
from “across the way”,
looking for a bed again
but ending up as always
with unwelcome trade.

Aye, Ken.
You get what you pay for, lad.
Yep, you certainly do, Mark.
Is he okay now?

Oh yes. Happy as a lark.
I heard him turn the lock
and say to himself
Ah! I should have come here in
the first place.

Part II

Lytham St Annes, The Fylde

Leaves across the pavement
carry the gusts,
the train of Autumn’s skirt
brushing the well-kept kerbs,
A commuter drive
along the Coastal Road
in the early morning following.
Her fiery complexion
the portent of winds,
crimson sunsets
and a myriad flaming arrows,
the furnace that burns the summer,
whose embers die
in the first deep frosts
of her cold companion, sister,
Winter…

Where Café Nero’s pavement seating
hints at an era of bygone
Edwardian gentility…
Even though not yet Eight AM.

Fraser, besuited, coffee latte,
Or is it cappuccino today?
Gorgeous emerald burgundy fountain pen
Working the Guardian crossword,
Enjoying the autumnal cigarette
beneath the rippling sunbrella
Until the light is extinguished by Winter.

Then all retreat to the leather chairs,
The Times, The Mail and Daily Express,
Americano, Latte, Cappuccino
a toasted Panatone too.

Classic or Chocolate, sir?
Just classic, please.
And jam and butter, sir?
No just butter today I think,
thank you.

Brief recall of the Mess
An Era long gone
In my twenties
At RAF Brize in Oxon.

Fraser pauses,
Shields the flame
inside his tan-coloured
Mackintosh en route back...
His brand new Jag
always discreetly parked
around the corner.
Emerald burgundy too.

A glow within.
Burgundy.
My home.
The livery of my City Liverpool.

Part III

19 Warton Street

The lunch hour bustles,
the pavements heave;
Our Paris Boulevard
with coffee cups steaming,
People teaming.

Negotiate the market stalls,
It must be “third Thursday!”
Don’t walk through the grocery displays…

Besuited, green ‘estate’ file firmly clasped,
Are the keys in my pocket?
A reassuring tap affirms.

A hundred thoughts
fly around my head
in close formation.
Will we succeed?

Will we hold this department together?
Will we defeat the seismic attempt
by others to destroy a Practice?

Yes. We will!

Defeat is not in my vocabulary.
An army that loses battles
still win wars!

Market Day …yes!
The town is heaving,
teaming with September tourists,
Catching that brief interlude.

Grace of Summer
confides with
Fire of Autumn,
and together
conspire against
Dread of Winter
to hold her off another day;
To touch the paving stones
To warm the seats,
To rustle the slowly turning leaves,
She trails her skirts
and, with a flurry,
send leaves a whirl,
and all the flags billowing,
and bunting fluttering.

Part IV

19 Warton Street

The Departing

19 Warton Street
looks warm and inviting,
Burgundy velvet drapes
in an architect’s bay window.

The single Yale stiffly turns,
a house now standing idle,
deceased.

No movement since that final visit,
Now a buyer’s market
resting on Recession,
Coldness in the bricks
around the lifeless hearth.

Grace gives warmth
to pin-striped shoulders,
Autumn tiptoes merrily beside me,
Swirling her skirts about my feet...

And then I enter.


I detest this part.
No matter how many times.
It is the same as the first time.

Stunned, I am back
a half-century, 1966
To 25 Windsor Street
Then 20, opposite.

Grandma’s house, forever warm!
But on that evil morn
standing behind Dad
as I’d never known that house before!

Now, again, I stare dread Winter
blue in the face!
and brace myself against
dread Winter’s
favourite bedmate …
… D E A T H!


Grace and Autumn pause outside,
There is cold here of demise.

A hint of happier times
a Great War portrait in the hall,
crooked...
but now straight!

That's better - lens-captured respect,
Youth, romance
An officer and a gentleman again!
Silently to myself.

Somehow, by that simple gesture
the house returns to even keel.

Grace peers in and alights upon the frame,
the smile in his eyes now clearly visible,
Looking directly at me,
Alive, welcoming,
An extraordinary moment.
We all have them,
We enjoy them secretly.

Briefly Winter retreats,
but then returns
and spitefully precedes me,
with each room I enter
the house becomes colder.

The stairs are dark,
the disarray apparent;
Hasty departure …
Paramedics,
Or was it already too late?
And just Mr Billington
the Undertaker?

Visions of a bygone age,
Hints of a fictional seaside town.
Another Fraser this time,
a Jones the butcher,
Pike the clerk
and Mrs Fox;
and was that really Elizabeth?

Her bedroom is dark,
The coldness on the fiery autumn day
ice-like within the confines
of these now corpsed walls.

Autumn rattles the loose window panes…
Impatience.
Hurry! Your next appointment!

Wait!!

The air is dank, musty, dead,
The odour unpleasant…
A hint of things to come
for all of us, without exception;
A heavy sigh
A question perplexing,
The green file
now the only representation
of a life lived
and now departed.

The task is done.
Junk mail now on the dusty kitchen table,
Toasted crumbs from a previous age
catch my sleeve with the ring mark
of that last cup of tea,
a brief glance back…
an agitated frown,
Winter strikes my back,
I close the file,
I strike back.

And then to Grace,
warm and embracing,
Autumn tiptoeing, cavorting,
Her orange, red and yellow skirts
about my feet again,
with merriment making.

And then to Grace,
warm and embracing,
Autumn tiptoeing, cavorting,
Her orange, red and yellow skirts
about my feet again,
with merriment making.

And in hasty liaison
on this cold and blustery doorstep
We all agree
Winter, barging in,
has outstayed her welcome;
so she can stay in that lifeless shell
a few days longer!

The Yale stiffly clicks in disorderly agreement
We retreat to the pavement,
Closing the garden gate behind us.

Meanwhile, we will return
along the High Street
and chat to passers-by.

Come on, Mr Webb!
Shoulders back.
Brace yourself.
No slouching there.
Rejoice in life!

Don’t let your work
get you down.
That’s better.
That’s the man.
Step lively there!

Jagged,
my thoughts race on.

Echoes of parade squares
a lifetime ago,
And Mr Welsh, the Warrant officer,
Gleaming pace stick and clipped heels
By example teaching us, leading us,
So we too braced ourselves
as to the Colours
We marched with pride,
with joy.

I turn the corner.
Grace is hot here in this glade.

Ah! Mr Webb, about my will.
I need to make some changes.

Again? My question smiled in silence…

Can I drop them in at Park Street?

My eyes reply.

Ah good, thank you.
There’s no rush.
But I leave for the States
day after tomorrow,
so can we execute in the morning,
say, 9.30am?

I’m an early riser, you see,
and will be in the road then
so it’ll be convenient.

Grace warms my back
and encourages my reply.

Certainly. Jan in Preston
will confirm the appointment
when I’m back at my desk.

Part V
Todderstaffes

Hi there Ken! Here’s the man!!
We’ve got no worries now, Zoe!!!
Is it tea and toast again today?

Yep, sure … I’m starving!

Grace, beautiful Grace!
Warm, as always, on my back,
likes Todderstaffes …

Autumn plays the game,
dislodging twigs and leaves for fun
on unsuspecting pensioners
gathered in the garden,
basking in the Autumn Sun.

Clayton! Have you done that food order yet?

No, Zoe … Have you done that repair
to the chair you broke this morning?!

A rolling of the eyes,
a cheeky laugh
and a distant kitchen rant …
One just cannot get the staff these days,
an obvious fondness in her voice
for these two boys, these renegades,
these lads about town!

The ominous but little giggled threat …
It wouldn’t happen on my sister’s
Kibbutz!!

A pause …

Oh boys, don’t start again!
Why DO I employ you?
Honest Ken, they try my patience
They really do.
They faff around and cause me all this grief.
Girls! That’s their trouble.
Girls!!

Because we’re indispensable, Zoe
That’s why, and gorgeous too,
Isn’t that right Richard?

Yep, it sure is Clayton, my boy!

(another ponders … what is it with this place
with all these cheeky winks tossing
to and fro at each other?

And what is this man
in the pinstripe suit?)

Now, you run along Clay
and get the cheese on toast
and ‘mum’s the word okay then Ken?!
Zoe’s not looking,
and it’s Andrew’s day off
So if you’re really good
I’ll give you a slice off the bone,
no questions asked, wink-wink!

(Ponders continues…
Well, I don’t get offered off the bone!)

A beam, a smile, laughter
and the peep of a piercing tongue stud.

Autumn gusts a torrent of leaves
as Zoe clears the teacups
to remind us of her presence,
and Grace bows out behind the gables…

Not a while now, and soon
the Winds of Winter, Four,
will bring down the gable and the wall
and give the coffee-drinkers
and blue-rinse brigade
endless lines to talk about
for days to come,
and well into Spring.

Let no one mention the day
Sam flooded the kitchen!
The talk of Park Street,
and a week later,
to the day,
Andrew’s disagreement
with the flaming frying pan!

The Arts Centre on the corner,
an agency across the way
sleepy olde-worlde Lytham
as if 1940 was back again!

Karen giggles, laughs again,
sipping her coffee seated in the corner…

Oh no. They’re at it again!
It’s just like teaching,

all over again!

6 October 2023
All Rights Reserved


LIVERPOOL


© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb