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Tom Langlands, who has provided the Blog with so many exquisite photographs, will come to the gathering on 29th and, in exchange for some comments on his written work, offer advice on photographing birds. Sounds like a good deal to me.
We are planning a celebratory gathering of contributors to this year's Livewires Blog and you are, of course, invited.
‘Livewires Live’ - a celebratory reading from the Writers’ Blog on the Southlight website:
2.00 - 4.00 pm Saturday 29th October at the Wildfowl & Wetland Trust, Caerlaverock
(Free entry to the reading but you buy your own cakes!) Eastpark Farm, Caerlaverock,
Dumfriesshire DG1 4RS)
Do let me know if you would like to read - e-mail : vivien@freeola.com
Hill Walkers - Liz Waugh
Daybreak
Wind passes through skyline trees
Black leaves lift and flap away, cawing
On a wobbly stork-leg, I salute the sun
At my feet, each emerald blade of grass
carries a diamond.
Leonie Ewing
Fire prompt
The fire of youth.....
Growing up in Larchfield, Dumfries I had plenty of things to do as a kid. In front of our flat lay a gigantic field with football and rugby posts and it would also play home to some golf practice for me and my friends although we weren't supposed to...
However one day I found some matches lying on the ground and I was silly enough to pick them up.
Now, out of all the things I could have been doing with my friends instead, I decided I would start a fire....
In the corner of the field was a little wasteland with a small building where I could climb onto the roof and hide from folk (as I did quite often). I decided that this would be the best place to start my fire. On top of the roof next to all the trees and all the houses behind them. Fantastic idea!
I grabbed some rubbish that was lying around and climbed onto the roof and made myself comfy.
There were very few matches left in the box so I didn't want to waste them. Trembling with nerves and excitement I scratched the first one along the box and snapped the match. Now, only two remain. Second attempt is a success and I thrust my hand into the pile of rubbish and soon see a small flame evolve and my eyes widen and my heart thumping through my shirt. The flame growing and so was my anxiety of getting caught and as it would turn out. I did get caught, BY MY MUM!!
The horror. A smacked arse and grounded for a week, tears streaming down my face and nose running and would it stop!
Why the hell did I play with fire? How stupid. It never ends well. Grounded for a week = no football for a week. Dammit.
Daniel Gillespie
Seasons prompt
Winter
On an arctic wind
Geese shatter against the sky
Autumn turns away
Carolyn Yates
Razorbill - Tom Langlands
Seasons prompt
Overwintering
The conference assembled
For a plenary session
After the delegates had flown in
On an unseasonably warm afternoon
The shades of autumn
Tinting the trees with reds yellows auburn
Reflecting on the water's surface
The delegates politics
The Canadians were first to arrive
Followed closely by the Siberians
The chattering gaggle
Of the geese on the Tarn
Here to negotiate trade agreements
Each keeping to their end of the pier
Planning to overwinter debating
The philosophical possibility
Of the Black Swans arriving
As they did last year creating a rush
Of interest before leaving to cause
Considerable doubt which is yet to be resolved
Unbothered by passports or borders
Flying as they wish to new locations
Heads deep in the water feeding
An unexamined uncontrolled migration
Of free spirits colonises the Tarn
Exploring the language of liberty
Telling tall tales of travellers adventuring
Awaiting the casting of fowler's nets
Geoff Smith
Love prompt
Lonely Without You
(First published in ‘Loving’ magazine, July 1972)
Lying here in my dream-filled night
I look back on my quiet day and evening time
And I know I’ve changed.
Somehow the boy-full-of-words
Is transformed to sudden silence in everything.
Lying here in my lonely sheets,
thinking of your lips,
yet so much inside myself
that it hurts this newly-quiet boy.
I cannot sing
And words tell lies.
Lying here inside myself
wondering
how to tell you
everything,
the silent way.
Thoughts
on night-time sheets
of paper
when we should be together in love
Peter Kelly
Flash fiction:
Antar
Dusk falls. In the moonlight Antar pads between the narrow high white walls marking the boundary between his world and the rich. His tough leather feet make no sound as he passes by sleeping dogs, dust swirling up under the hem of his faded and glorious bisht. His eyes miss nothing. Everywhere he goes, rubbish spews from broken black plastic sacks. By morning they will be dropped into the slow rumble of the garbage truck, streets will have been washed and swept by the street sweepers. But for now Antar rules. He lifts and peers into each sack in turn. The smell rises like perfume. Extracting the riches he seeks, he hides titbits in his voluminous pockets. As the the voice of the Imam cracks the dawn in prayer Antar returns to his lair to eat first, then to sleep through the heat of the day. Dusk will fall again.
Carolyn Yates
In Praise of Pith
Preparing a pomegranate
I fiddle with pith, remove the
creamy, expendable matrix in
which the jewelled fruits
are perfectly socketed
before we break it
apart.
It reminds me of bees
their furred, little bodies
purring in perfect, hexagonal
pockets of wax
the parts we can’t eat
that need to be there
to hold honey.
And people are pithy
my favourite Radio 4 anchors
Humphrys and Husain
Finnemore and Fry
who hold it all together
while I lapse into hysterical
laughter
and the quiet comedians
at the allotment
who tease me, gently
about my weeds
their potatoes
unearthed treasure
from the friable dark
their pea pods packed
tight with green pearls
their broad beans, side by side
in perfect, velvet cushions
of pith
like the well-behaved children
of royalty.
Clare Phillips
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