Who first decided
the vital part
of all of us
was called a ‘heart’?
Did early man,
with spear and club,
declare his love
with all his ‘ug’?
The foyer, a hive of parents. Small off-spring
in lurex and cardboard, are teacher-whisked away.
The hive disperses, the buzz settles, expectantly.
The curtain rises on parrots, rainbow-costumed,
feathered, hooded and beaked; back stage creations,
alive now, tiny arms flailing in simulated flight.
Unsynchronised bemused infants search the shadowed
rows for their own safe familiar belaying-pins.
as they straggle of stage, beckoned and cajoled.
Suddenly, an explosion of music; pirates and wenches
flood the stage as Treasure Island erupts with
whirling skirts and clashing swords, adrenaline fed;
a hurricane of colour; tempest of sound as Mrs Reardon’s
spring-loaded arms pound the school piano and nodding head
elevates the untrained voices to concert pitch.
Junior school, class two, sails the ocean. A dropped sword
and gingham bonnet lie abandoned on the wooden beach,
deserted now, awaiting hurried change of scene.
Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver, surrounded by small
mixed infants; gold and silvered into pieces of eight
weave their way through the plot, upheld by the
unflagging crashing waves of teacher’s music and her wide
all-encompassing smile; pride of achievement soaring
now on the tumultuous acclaim from the audience.
The foyer, a hive again with Mums and Dads and Grannies,
waiting with coats and praise…and McDonald’s promises.
© Marion Sharville
JANUARY
Hung over from December,
January peers cautiously into the future.
The past year jogs her elbow…time to change.
Hope, around the open door of the New Year,
beckons…lighting the way.
The sharp winter cold
stirs the slurried taste of yesterday;
cleansing the palate to be refreshed with new choices.
Braced, she strides forward, trusting His promise
that each false step
will not be irredeemable.
FEBRUARY
Crisp January cleansed. The old year’s dead
and shriven as spring lambs we can’t evade
the dreary days, the month that lies ahead.
Like purgatory, the crossing must be made.
Though leaden skies are clamped down and secure,
the sun may shine but doesn’t warm a thing.
The shortest month, yet longest to endure,
March bides her time to have her gusty fling.
Bleak February’s world is monochrome,
with all her colours drained and stored for Spring.
It seems this month has set her heart of stone
to sharpen up the rain for added sting.
A cruel time, when all is said and done
and yet…the snowdrops do not fear to come.
MARCH
Young March steps from behind the long dark skirt of February, lightly toe-dipping into the fast-flowing year.
Cautiously, she caresses the trees, seeking sanctuary.
Emboldened by their welcome, she feels her feet,
shakes off her fear, blows out her cheeks
and starts to set her pulses wild,
a challenge, test of strength, a force within, a teen-age mutineer
having a fling; a skirt-lifting Whirling Dervish; a devil child.
Recklessly she shoots the rapids of the rooftops;
searches every cranny for things to play with, until they are spoiled.
A deceit of tempo lulls us, as she seems to slow and stop.
Her power drives her on though without slackening,
hurling dustbins, screaming like a banshee down chimneys, through locks.
The damage?…of no consequence. It’s beyond her reckoning.
Exhausted, spent, she succumbs to April’s gentle beckoning.
APRIL
Nursemaid to Mother Nature, she coaxes the tender shoots
towards the light, releasing them from their clammy dungeons.
She caresses the leaves, unfurls the petals and paints the primroses.
Applauding the trumpeting of the daffodils,
she dances through the dappled woods, with the bluebells
and sprays a rainbow of colour on the dark brown of the earth,
showering all with gentle rain to release the perfume of life.
All is prepared for Sister May to take over the next shift.
MAY
Blossom-bedecked May;
hand-maiden of Summer,
scattering petals in her path,
nourishes April’s infants;
green shoots of life, to create
bowers of colour
for the garden.
A gentle month,
a deep breath of contentment
setting the mood
for Summer to laze through
the long daylight hours;
a warm-up act for
the star turn, June.
JUNE
June arrives in majesty, bearing
the standard of the longest day.
Her retinue of bees, butterflies and song-birds
pay homage, busying the skies,
composing the music of summer.
Travelling through the days,
she invites all to join the pilgrimage
of sun-worshippers hopefully
lifting their faces to be kissed.
She tantalizes with glimpses
of lazy days on sun-drenched beaches
but in this our temperate land,
it often rains on her parade.
JULY
Sleepy July, waking to sun-lit mornings,
ambling through long bee-buzzing afternoons,
alfresco meals and lazing in the long grass
or toiling in the heat, weary journey home
to cool drinks, relaxing. Windows and doors
wide open to catch a breath of fresh air;
a pot-pourri of garden scents to welcome.
Summer hours stretch to touch the soft
star-spangled velvet shawl draping the evening sky
as she slips into sleepless heat-tossed nights.
AUGUST
August, childminder of the year, surrounded
by those loosed from the tyranny of school bells,
freed to happily squander time
building castles in the air and in the sand.
The swift upturn of a bucket transports them
to days of heroic deeds, fortress-minded
adventures colouring their lives. Ice cream
surfeited, pocket money gone,
as will be their footsteps in the sand when
she returns them, sun-browned and reluctant
to the patient waiting arms of Alma Mater.
SEPTEMBER
Children back at school;
a blanket of silence settles on the day,
at least between nine and four o’clock.
She relaxes like a grandmother
after the childminding is over.
Hanging on to warm days, she clings
desperately to the long summer evenings
slipping through her finger.
OCTOBER
October, reaching back to warm days
wraps the trees in a sariof colour;
an Indian Summer, a
harvest of beauty
and the rustle of taffetta
replaces the humming of bees
as the wind dances with
the fallen leaves.
NOVEMBER
Throwing off the colourful dresses of Autumn,
she dons a chilly grey mantel of mist;
beds down with dark nights and early mornings,
and at evening, she hurries home in the rain.
Unwittingly sponsored by Guy Fawkes,
sudden bursts of light and showers of stars,
then the distant glimmer of Christmas, help
her to peer ahead with Hope to the New Year,
DECEMBER
An advent sweet a day creeping towards Christmas.
she entangles all in a web of tinsel and colour,
gathering wrapping paper, debts and worries
in a pile to bewilder on Boxing Day.
Voices lifted in song and prayers
breathe air into the space beneath
where a Babe lies in a crib, watched over.
In His tiny hands, His offering of Love and Peace.
y Fawkes,
JANUARY
Hung over from December,
January peers cautiously into the future.
The past year jogs her elbow…time to change.
Hope, around the open door of the New Year,
beckons…lighting the way.
The sharp winter cold
stirs the slurried taste of yesterday;
cleansing the palate to be refreshed with new choices.
Braced, she strides forward, trusting His promise
that each false step
will not be irredeemable.
Depression stalked our beloved Country
with endless days of poverty and want.
Sad memories of the First World War
still deep in our hearts,
to grieve and to haunt.
A six-day week, a pay packet to spend;
put nine-pence aside to go, with a friend
to see a film and sample delights
of Romance and Glamour, on Saturday nights.
Bright lights beckoned as we stepped off the bus,
everything seemed to be welcoming us.
The foyer, a cavern of gold, red and cream,
then darkness, a torch and the Silver Screen.
The dancing of Ginger and Fred Astaire
dispelled the ‘Blues’ as we sat and stared,
while Mickey Rooney, precocious child,
and Judy Garland, drove their fans wild.
Engulfed with laughter at the Marx Brothers antics;
‘A Night at the Opera’, drove us all frantic.
Then, ‘Gone With The Wind’ with Vivien Leigh;
such a beautiful girl, just as we longed to be.
The curtains swished down, a machine all aglow,
the cinema organ came up from below
as the man in coat-tails conjured tunes of the day
and we queued up to buy ice cream from a tray .
The supporting film and a Disney cartoon;
the appetizer to start with but then, very soon,
came the big film, the one that we’d all come to see;
the old and the young, my best friend and me.
All the Cowboys lived and died by the gun.
The one with the white hat always won
All of them fired their guns quite a lot,
But the man, in black, was the one who got shot.
A romantic gesture; light your Love’s cigarette.
We hadn’t been told not to smoke, not yet.
She blew perfect smoke rings with elegant ease,
Her red lacquered lips pouting to please.
The bedroom scenes were all very chaste,
nobody took off their clothes in haste..
Those on the bed were told to be sure,
to keep one foot firmly attached to the floor.
Each film had been censored and vouchsafed to show
happy endings for lovers and villains brought low.
We swallowed it all, at least for a while,
a picture of Heaven, Hollywood style.
Evil was never allowed to succeed
But, in real life, were warnings we needed to heed
when goose-stepping men marched across Pâthé News
we felt the return of our fear-faden ‘Blues’.
But we were young and still full of hope;
and, with what Life threw at us, we felt we could cope.
We knew what to do.
from our own box of tricks,
was to spend every Saturday night at the ‘Flicks’.
© Marion Sharville
n
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`
.
I unlock the door and enter, the central heating is on
and the house is warm but the silence has set in, like Rigor Mortis
I go from room to room, endeavouring to give it the kiss of life
but my breath is not enough.
There are no lights left burning,
no washing up in the sink,
no boots for me to trip over.
There’ll be no interruptions; I can do as I like,.
yet I can’t settle to anything.
I invite the radio and television voices into the house
but they are self-sufficient, They don’t need a hot meal; a loan to get them through to pay-day.
They don’t envelop me in a loving hug
Or offer to make me a cup of tea, when I’m tired.
My world has moved outside these four walls;
The last one has left home.
© Marion Sharville
The crackled cry of the infant
slapped into life,
soft breath on its cheek,
warmth of encircling arms
…the beginning
A touch of gentle fingers exploring
the palms, the toes, the knees;
a hazy moon-shape, hovering
…out of focus.
A hunger, a need, a nuzzling,
a satisfaction,
a gazing into eyes, searching
…the depths of love.
Swaddling, comfort; a lulling,
a humming melody, voices
whispering and soft laughter
…sleep.
Awaken to a medley of sounds,
sensations, shadows, awareness.
The breathing in of life
…has begun.
© Marion Sharville
Ted the Tortoise was quite aware
of ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’;
a tale to teach the very young,
though slow, a race could still be won.
This fable taught through history
did not explain the mystery
why, though he’d struggled and survived,
this one sad tortoise felt deprived.
In youth, he’d never known the thrill
of racing madly down a hill.
Though others didn’t give a toss,
he felt within, a sense of loss.
Now he was nearing his retirement
,speed seemed to be his prime requirement..
He felt that he should fill this gap
before he took his winter nap.
.
“I want a change,” he told a slug,
“I’ve always been too slow.
If I could just speed up a bit;
start dashing to and fro,
I think I’d feel the benefit.
I’d be a better creature.”
Slug replied, “With legs like that,
I don’t think speed’s a feature.”
“I’ll get a motor bike,” said Ted…
a Harley-Davison.”
“You’ll never reach the handle-bars
or get your helmet on.”
“I do not need a helmet, I have my carapace.
I’ll tuck my head inside it.
“and whroom and roar and race..
I’ll rev up to the ninth degree
and race with all my might
to try to travel faster even
than the speed of light. “
“I don’t know why you bother, Ted”
said slug, who was intent
on eating all the brand new plants,
“With life, I’m quite content
“Alright for you with no backbone,
you’d never make an ‘Ace’
but, as for me, I feel the urge
to fly to outer space.”
Hell’s Angels, in a group, pulled up
and Ted’s heart filled with rapture.
He thumbed a lift to Southern France
to join the Marseille chapter.
They dressed him in a leather coat,
festooned with jangling chains
and sat him on a petrol tank,
then set off down the lanes
and when they reached the open road,
they revved and picked up speed.
Our hero was ecstatic.
This was the life, indeed,.
He knew that they had painted a
skull and cross-bones on his shell,
it made him feel quite fearless
…until he fell quite ill..
They whroomed and sped o’er hill and dell,
the wind got underneath his shell.
The petrol fumes he didn’t like
and wished he could get off this bike.
He wondered what had been the purpose
of a speed obsessed old tortoise,
just because he had a mind for
something he was not designed for.
.
Back home at last and plodding slow,
slug said, “Poor Ted, I told you so
It didn’t meet your expectation,
.I think it’s time for hibernation.”
© Marion Sharville
Stay, stay the hand. The candle, let it burn,
the cradle of despair will grant no rest.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.
Curled deep within your misery, you yearn
to shift the load that’s put you to the test.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.
How slowly turns the mill, the ancient quern,
the product that results may be the best.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.
The greatest gift you have, you should not spurn,
enfolding bitter pith there is the zest.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.
I glimmer in the darkness, time to learn.
Wait patiently the advent of your guest.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.
Precision timing is the prime concern,
I spring eternal in the human breast.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.
Don’t close the door against ny sure return.
© Marion Sharville
Past eight o’clock and the sun still warm.
Dappled leaves rock gently, silvered in sunlight.
Fuchsias dance on spindly legs, a ‘pas de dozen,’
a free-for-all on the breeze.
Chalk-white against the trees
the painted dove-cote stretches tall.
New-mown grass awaits the shadowing of the young fox,
not yet brave enough to tackle next-door’s rooster.
Daisies nodding off; the neat and tidy
scratch and snap of shears;
tree-tops twittering with fledglings;
murmurs of a closing day.
Crashing through this lullaby,
joy-riders play their Russian Roulette;
two-wheel cornering and screech of tyres
and little Jimmy, down the road,
with his hammer bashes old cars
—can’t wait to be big enough.
© Marion Sharville
Nursemaid to Mother Nature, she coaxes the tender shoots
towards the light, releasing them from their clammy dungeons.
She caresses the leaves, unfurls the petals and paints the primroses.
Applauding the trumpeting of the daffodils,
she dances through the dappled woods, with the bluebells
and sprays a rainbow of colour on the dark brown of the earth,
showering all with gentle rain to release the perfume of life.
All is prepared for sister May to take over the next shift.
© Marion Sharville
