FIRST LOVE

Did all little boys fall in love with their Sunday school teacher when I was young? Yes, absolutely! And that innocent affection lingers to this day.

SUNDAY SCHOOL

On Sundays, we were led away,
like God's beloved Israelites,
before the sermon, full of wrath,
through doors where heavy curtains hung,
red velvet, like a parted sea,
to Sunday School and gentleness,
rich tales from the Old Testament
with sing-song chants to plant them deep.

We boys, dressed up like little men,
all worshipped sweet Miss Nicholl then.

I loved that short, entrancing hour
that almost-truant time enjoyed
in school but not in proper school.
Freed from the cradle-coffin pew,
the scrutiny of father's eye,
the moth-ball smell of Sunday best,
we boys would chatter like small birds
that had not yet learned how to fly.

Miss Nicholl, long dead, I suppose,
was young then, lovely as a rose.

THE BEAGLE HAS LANDED

When my wife, the novelist Jane Mosse, chose a dedication for her latest book, Barking Mad, Confessions of a Dog-Sitter, it was not me, her devoted husband, who received that accolade but, instead, three much-loved animals that played the starring roles in our very first pet-sit. 
Eddie the Beagle, Scheggia, his assertive female companion and Charlie, the beautiful Burmese cat, jointly ensured that our introduction to pet-sitting four years ago was a game-changer and kick-started a most agreeable pastime that has seen us travel extensively in the UK and Europe meeting interesting people and their delightful pets.
A (highly) fictionalised version of our adventures is contained between the covers of Jane's entertaining new novel.
The first consignment of Barking Mad arrived yesterday as the pictures show. 
Move over J K Rowling. You're history now!

BUY IT HERE: https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=726#!/Barking-Mad-Confessions-of-a-Dog-Sitter/p/176484455/category=25584242
EBOOK VERSION CLICK HERE.

IT'S DEJA JU ALL OVER AGAIN!

One of the pretentious young painters in Somerset Maugham's novel, Of Human Bondage, observes that no artist should live beyond forty because by then he's produced his best work and after that everything he does is merely repetition.
The poem below, Odyssey, bears many similarities to a couple of others that I've written and all three may have been influenced by a much-loved narrative poem from my childhood, The Listeners by Walter de la Mare. 
The other two poems with a similar theme are The Cottage and The House Of The Famous Poet, the latter included in my Stone Witness collection published by Blue Ormer a couple of years ago.
To have repeated myself not once but three times seems to suggest that I've been around far too long!

ODYSSEY

We left the car and travelled on
by foot: the track was rough and steep.
Above us, high, the Greek sun shone.
We paused to watch bright swallows sweep.
The temperature was rising fast.
We reached the little house at last.

But there was no one there, besides,
it looked abandoned: no goats came
to stare at us with strange pale eyes,
no cats crouched by the window-frame,
asleep, indifferent to us,
no dog rushed out to make a fuss.

So we turned round, reluctantly,
and made our way back to the car
that we had parked so carelessly.
The track behind lay like a scar

upon a half-remembered face

that time and weather might erase. 

ALL CHANGE

In common, I suspect, with others of advanced years I find myself bemused by the surrealistic twists and turns of 21st Century life. 
Quite what my parents or grandparents would have made of modern Britain is beyond me. 
Here's a Magritte-type image to go with my short poem for St Valentine's Day.

V.

The Valentine you sent last year

was much appreciated, dear,

but when the date comes round again

to someone else a card please pen.

For romance and a lover’s vow,

alas, would be unwelcome now.

The things that once attracted you

have been replaced by features, new.

No more, the silken peach-like cheek,

the blushing, feminine mystique,

no more nail polish, coiffeured hair,

chic gowns that left my shoulders bare,

no more red lipstick, no more slap,

for I’ve transitioned. I’m a chap.

BARKING MAD

Barking Mad, Confessions of a Dog Sitter, is the title of an amusing new novel by my wife, who writes under the name Jane Mosse. It's due out in March. 
Barking Mad also seems like a suitable tag-line for the following piece of whimsy.
It's been a while since I posted a Micro-Fiction piece so here's one that I hope will make you smile. 

FOR LIFE, NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS

Gordon was too macho to go to the doctor when the dog bit him on Christmas Eve. No doctor: no tetanus. Shit happens and the bite wasn’t serious. The dog itself didn’t seem particularly serious either: a big ungainly mutt with a daft expression, wearing the remnants of a suit and tie. The clothing puzzled Gordon. At home he bathed the wound with disinfectant. Neat puncture marks. Nothing to worry about.  

Worry set in a week later when the moon was full. Hair sprouted on Gordon’s hands; his teeth became fangs; a reckless hunger overwhelmed him. Stumbling outdoors in pyjamas, he bounded across L'Ancresse Common, driven by an instinct beyond his control.  

What’s happening to me? he howled. And howled and howled and howled. 

LIGHTS OUT!

These are troubled times to live in, when daily, the threats of global war, a massive, natural catastrophe or the emergence of an uncontrollable virus, are ever in our consciousness thanks to the strident voices of online news sources.

ONCE UPON A TIME, THE END

Why have the lights twice blinked and why

does my phone fall silent as a stone

and the PC screen now, suddenly,

transform itself to a mourning black

and the dog seek refuge underneath

the chair where I sit distractedly,

overcome with a strange anxiety?

Why does the evening sky explode 

with a yellow fierceness in the west

and the beech trees, out by the garden edge, 

seem to lose their outline suddenly

as the lights go out and the TV stops

and the dog begins to rend its skin 

as though it alone felt the end begin?