Okay okay, I am going to backtrack slightly... I don't think I am all that London-centric, it's just that growing up in the East Midlands didn't really offer a culturally defining experience (it's awfully flat, though the pork pies are good).  Then I went to university in Leeds and fell in love with the North, developed a Yorkshire accent and enjoyed the beer.  My postgrad in Norwich felt rather cold and monocultural by contrast, although that was where I defined myself as a writer, so in theory that should be my 'home'.  I think I'm stuck in London for good now, though.  My children are Londoners, after all, and I suppose I have reached an age where 'home' is defined by where my children are rather than where my parents are...  I would go stark raving mad if I

White lilies

In waxy-petalled sprays

Redolent of mourning

And of wreaths,

Flank the altar of a country church at dusk,

Imbuing the chill and mildewed air

With a deep and honeyed scent,

Vanilla'd musk.

In fading light,the low sun

Glancing through stained glass

With mosaic rays,

Diffuses the sepulchral gloom

And gleams on psalter,oak

And burnished brass,

And warms wan lilies into life

To breathe soft breaths of rich perfume ....

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Susan Jean Peters

Susan Jean Peters

Hello again, as the creative writing highlight is intermittently playing up I thought I'd post another reminder for the August writing competition. All the details are here, and the deadline is 5pm UK time, Friday August 15th.

Here is a spooky poem to keep you entertained...

In Darkness Crept Shadows Dark

In darkness crept shadows dark,
Of forms that could not be seen
It seemed as if I was awake
But it was just a dream...
Though knew it not I at the time
When among these shadows I walked,
And though I heard not what they said,
I understood when they talked.

These forms invisible to the eye,
Could be felt by the moving air,
The little cold breeze of a moments life,
That says something has moved that once was there.
And a shiver went through my spine,
Though I knew it was not bad,
Still I shiver as if in fear
Of a soul distressed and sad.

I knew not of the shapes
Their kind, origin or name,
But knew they grieved a wrong to them done,
Or mourned an unrightable shame.
And the tears of these silent shapes
Splashed

Fragrant as certainty (part 1)

“Underground the flower knows

that winters end; spring will be

fragrant as certainty”

from BOND by Selwyn Pritchard

When I was seven, he died.  Bits I knew – Muscat; Aden;

Egypt.  Middle Wallop, and Mum train-travelling through

the blackout to Bournemouth: no knowing the effects later.

Did mid-East heat sap too much of his vigour?  Warrant Officer

Williams; demobbed out of the hothouse into the North West’s

often sodden summers, bracing autumns, rare-coast-snow winters.

Here we were now perched on the rim of the Fylde, between Wyre

and Ribble in The Workers’ Playground of The North.  Nick said

he & Paul couldn’t shake the wonder of the

Lucky Bleeders 

 We were in the dressing room where they had pushed the old upright piano out of sight to accommodate the grand on stage. I pressed down on middle ‘c’. “I wish I could play as well as you,” I said. “You’re so lucky.” I gave a quick rendition of chopsticks, with my foot on the soft pedal to keep the noise down. Even so she 'shushed' as she stood with her back to me. She peered into a small mirror propped up on the cupboard, touching a wand of gloss to her lower lip. She was nearly ready for the performance; her dark curls scooped up leaving tendrils on her lovely neck. She was wearing the long black velvet dress- the one with a scooped low back that made me want to stroke her, pull her towards me. Later, if I was lucky.

High on the hill

A ruined castle stands aloof,

Surveying time with sightless eyes.

Forbidding walls ,

Shadowed in shadow,

Hold history's heartbeats

Of the nameless dead,

In blackened stone,

As overhead a red kite flies,

The valley now and wind-scoured sky

His kingdom ;

This wild domain .. his throne .

 Simon sat back in his chair and lobbed a paper ball, purposefully, at the tiny net which he had fixed to the wall opposite. ‘Close, but no cake,' Tim said, in that cocky little voice that really had begun to irritate him.

‘No cake for me and no bloody chance for you, either, mate,' Simon retorted, unable to hide the true depth of his feelings. They had worked together, happily, successfully, for the last five years. Their profitability had plummeted over the past few months under the combined onslaught of increasing costs and a slump in demand as customers stopped flashing their credit cards around. This downturn in business prospects had opened up cracks in their normally harmonious relationship.

 ‘Listen, Simon. If we don't pull in more punters, we can start