Home From Hols

Back home and finding it hard to get into the old routine of washing, ironing, dog walking (love them to bits), hoovering, cooking, gardening. I believe that after two weeks of being waited on at every turn, of someone cleaning your room every morning and evening, food served without a question (and very edible), entertainment a walk along the hall, there should be offered as part of the holiday a slow weaning off this lifestyle and a gradual introduction to the boring routines of being home. Maybe then the first few days of being home after having such a fabulous time would not be such a shock to the system.

Ode To The Sea

Ode To The Sea

A Poem by Patricia Wood

The steady beat of the ocean's heart,

Pounding, swashing rhythmically,

Intermingled with the melancholy, distant call of the gulls,

A sound so sad, so solitary, Near and yet far.

Those gulls of prey

Circling, hovering in the cloud-filled sky

Seeking food.

The life from the sea.

O deep endless waves,

Why tread your path of heartbreak and destruction?

Your revenge for your irreplaceable loss to ma?

Or is it a plea from your lonely wintry sands

For the sun, the breeze, and the people who have deserted you?

Think not of our misgivings

As they are as essential to us

As the daily ebb of the tide is to you.

Think of those long, summer days

When the sun blazed through the clear, yet hazy sky,

And children ran barefoot through your warm amber sands;

When your gentle, even tempered waves cooled their hot bodies,

When people lay on tattered towels, hiding behind multi-coloured shades, clad in pretty beachwear and plastic straw hats.

When laughter rang through your silent, friendly inviting beaches

Where flasks of drink, tea cups, bags were in abundance

Those young and old lovers walked hand in hand

And the cool breeze caressed the waters.

Such happy times with lovely memories,

Never far from our minds.

Remember the happy things, you vengeful thunderous sea,

As you pound impatiently against the stony shores.

Sen back your fiery steeds of foam.

Beware, you shores,

Of the waves that hope to engulf your sands.

Be patient, be calm,

O mighty waters,

Your time is gone

But your time shall come again.

©️Patricia Wood/Lorraine Poulter  1978

Today-the day before the bank holiday

What a day!!!!
I had the whole day planned. A few hours in my Shed writing, a walk with the dogs, maybe a bit of gardening. So far the only bit achieved was an afternoon walk with the dogs. The rest of the day was lost to the dilemma of how to cope with no water entering the house. That's right. About 2pm we discovered no water was coming through the taps. After the initial panic we contacted a local plumber who announced on inspection that the pump was fine but there could be a problem with the electrics, which he was unable to sort.
Who do you call on a Sunday afternoon without any hope of contacting anyone to come out until Tuesday because of the Bank Holiday tomorrow.
I put out a note on Facebook for anyone local to contact us with details of anyone who could help. Four hours later no one has replied, probably gone away for the weekend.
So took out Golden pages and found a 24 hour plumber-electrician.He cannot come out until tomorrow.
So a trip to Aldi to stock up on water and some milk for a much needed coffee.

Extraordinary

I read somewhere that most ordinary of people are capable of the most extraordinary actions. As we all presume to be ordinary we are therefore have the ability to find the extraordinary which is in us all. Be special and strive to find that extraordinary within every day.

Pause for thought

We can never take people at face value. We do not know their story and even when we are aware of their story it is from their point of view. In making friendships we learn to accommodate the other person's failings in the hope that they will accommodate ours. We overlook the disappointments in the relationship because they alone do not make up the friendship. Give, take, compromise and a lot of love bring us to our friends. With luck we get it right and they stay.

I am writing this because I can never work out whether or how this situation came about. Last year I invited two separate friends to meet up one afternoon. Both declined with excuses of other things to do. Fair enough. I later discovered that they had lied to me and actually met up without me. I was hurt and could not understand why the need for the deceit. They could not understand my reaction to their deceit and one went so far as to explain to me that I did not understand what had happened because "I was not Irish". Neither apologised nor considered they needed to apologise for the deceit and expect me to do so for getting cross with the situation. I did apologise for my part but they did not reciprocate. In fact they were quite happy for me to shoulder the blame for what happened when in fact I was the victim-not a word I  like but it is all there is. The disagreement has never solved itself. The friendships are broken and lost.
I don't think I will ever understand what basically happened. But it made the basis for a story, The Grand High Witch.

Patricia Wood

The previous two poems were written when I was still at school with dreams of becoming a writer. They were published in a book called Modern Poets 1978. Life intervened with many personal demons haunting my existence for many years which prevented me from pursuing a career in in my first love-writing.