I cannot stand my ghastly wife: instead, I love her sister, dear. The former one pollutes my life. The latter woman I revere. I’ve hatched a plot to rid me of my wife, I’ve simply had enough.
I’ve put rat-poison in a cake: my wife is fond of sweets and treats. One slice is all she’ll have to take: rich cream will guarantee she eats then she’ll be gone and I’ll have Maud. It’s simple: just give fate a prod.
Maud’s phoned me to my work and said she’s at our house to tend my wife who’s got the sniffles, gone to bed: there’s germs around and flu is rife. I fear I’ve made a great mistake: Maud’s brewed some tea and scoffed the cake.
At an early age it becomes apparent that one way to be sure of succeeding in the romance stakes is to impress one's beloved with some extraordinary skill: playing the guitar, always seemed to work when I was a kid, though never for me with my total absence of musical ability. Being good at sport was certain to garner popularity or, if all else failed, being a "poet" (or, more importantly, looking like one) was a pretty good bet. At the fairground, too, there would have been opportunities aplenty to demonstrate one's desirability to the opposite sex through a host of daredevil activities like helter-skelter or the dodgems. Prowess at the rifle range, too, would almost certainly have guaranteed a chaste kiss.
KIDS
He swears the air-gun’s fixed to miss, the moving target’s somehow rigged but still he pays and takes three shots, and misses. She demands a kiss for consolation. Then the slots, small change, fixed too, by now he’s twigged it’s all a con, but loads of fun, as they go running, hand in hand. She laughs, cries out, Let’s get some chips! A childish romance has begun. He kisses her chip-salty lips behind the Punch and Judy stand.
It's said that we turn into our parents as we grow older.
A FATHER’S REFLECTION In my shaving mirror, increasingly, as I grow old, my father’s face replaces mine. As I erase the moisture, he stares back at me. His father’s son, he too took on his father’s brow, his father’s jaw, his narrow nose, cheekbones and chin. Now I, first-born son of that son, obey dictates of Nature’s law as fine lines autograph my skin. So here I stand, the mirror a lake. He signals, from the other side, a gentle smile, a loving wave, while I stand here hardly awake with soap and razor, bleary-eyed, forgetting that I need to shave. That thread that links us binds us tight yet spirals outward, upward still, to moor my daughter as she sails up through life’s thermals like a kite, her bright ambitions to fulfill. Through generations blood prevails and we retain some small imprint of our begetters, yet display our own uniqueness, our own guise. We carry then, some clue, some hint, of them, our loved, our lost, away into the future and reprise their smile, the way they stood, their walk. So something of my father stays forever in my stance, my skin, my eyes, my voice, the way I talk, my dialect, my turn of phrase: an echo sounding deep within.
The bristle on my jaw is braille. its message clear in words, sublime: although we are devoured by Time, souls will survive when bodies fail.
Situated in a picturesque valley in St Andrew’s parish, The Little Chapel is a popular tourist destination and one of Guernsey’s most well-known landmarks. Originally constructed in 1914, and planned as a miniature version of the Rosary Basillica at Lourdes, the chapel was built and demolished twice before the present version was finally completed. Decorated with seashells, pebbles and broken china, this unique building measures just sixteen feet by nine feet, has room for about seven people, and is thought to be the smallest consecrated church anywhere in the world.
LITTLE CHAPEL
On full-moon nights the Chapel glows with holy light. No tourists now, with cameras or summer clothes or catalogues to tell them how the Chapel grew, how earth and shards created, like a house of cards, this tiny masterpiece that stands here in a valley far from town; how loving, dextrous human hands raised it, from soil to spire and crown, through faith for spiritual reward, so long ago, to praise the Lord.
Only the barn owl, hunting low over the meadow, and the shrew crouching immobile, eyes aglow, in the accumulating dew of the amazing full-moon night bathe in its spreading Godly light.
Lord Tennyson's narrative poem, The Lady of Shalott, first learned when I was at school, is an enduring favourite of mine. In our online world with its dependence on computer screens, I see a marked similarity with the life of that sad, imprisoned lady condemned to view the world only through its mirror image.
SHALOTT A river, like a passing life, flows steadily to Camelot. Along its bank slim aspens grow, wild irises, long-limbed loose-strife, and, hourly, sloops with cargoes go to that far place where she dare not.
She moves within a spartan room where silence like a boulder-weight bears down on her. She may despise her morning’s work upon the loom: a woven history of lies, at best half-truths, half-told too late, but if she does, she puts aside such sentiments and turns again to watch the world swim in a mirror where shadow-shapes, like fishes, glide and, daily, mysteries occur. A curse demands she must refrain from gazing on the world beyond her tall, arched window: she must view the passing moment in a glass. Each risen morning, rosy-dawned, incarcerated, she must pass her time by weaving and eschew a life unscreened, where touch and scent enliven the most sluggish hearts: where sunlight warms the dappled shade and lovers lie enwrapped, content in their belief love will not fade; where, brightly, the kingfisher darts and snap of twig drives startled deer, in wingless flight, a honeyed wave, towards the tree-line, darkly green, where auburn foxes, without fear, like black-eyed sorcerers, convene beneath a leafy architrave. Where, daily, west wind’s untamed spin scrawls patterns on broad fields of grain; where spring unfolds its giving hand, and harmony exists within an unseen, heady-scented land that lies beyond her window pane. In short, hers is a cruel fate as, cloistered, she needs must deny the living world: her limpid screen, devoid of life, can not create the elemental shout of green, the singing river slipping by.
She does not view the world direct: instead she visits on a screen a hundred-million web-sites where facsimiles of life collect. One moment here, next moment there ... Her touch-pad banishes each scene.
