SURVIVAL SKILLS

Following debate in the Scottish Parliament, the mass shooting of mountain hares is to be made illegal.

During a debate on the Animals and Wildlife Bill, the Scottish Rural Affairs Minister accepted an amendment from the Scottish Green Party making it an offence to kill mountain hares without a licence. 

The Minister suggested, however, that it may take time to change the rules.

Campaigners have welcomed the move but landowners are said to be extremely disappointed at the curbs.

HARE

Stillness is her best defence.

So she becomes 

a russet stone,

a dark tussock, 

a clod of earth, upturned,

perhaps merely a shadow,

there, by a dry-stone wall

on hostile, open ground.

No shiver of wind 

disturbs her tawny fur.

She sits, unbreathing, 

stiff as an idol.

Only her eyes, bead bright

in a fine-boned head, travel 

like planets.

With leather-gaitered boots,

mountainous shape,

tobacco reek,

and slow-departing tread,

danger passes.

NOSY PARKERS

How well I remember the disdainful glances of those matronly ladies who seemed to spend more time tut-tutting at the behaviour of reluctant teenage church attendees like myself than actually praying.

MRS PARKER

She sits in 1960 in a 1950s hat,

her pale face disapproving of who knows whom or what,

a purse-lipped Presbyterian with stern, reproving eyes

and dark familiar handbag close beside her like a cat.

She glowers at the Minister, berobed in treacle-black, 

who speaks of ancient prophets and which son each begat.

She listens like a predator 

for whispered, idle chat 

from restive voices one pew back,

young Sunday conscripts trapped 

with shuffle-feet and sniggers

and cellophane unwrapped.

FULLY BOOKED

This poem is not about G B Edwards, the Guernsey-born author of what has been described as one of the greatest novels of the Twentieth Century, but was inspired by GBE's latter days spent in exile in Weymouth. 

The Book of Ebenezer Le Page, Gerald Edwards' masterpiece, is a true classic. 

The life of its author, too, is an amazing one and can be explored in a fascinating biography, Genius Friend, by Professor Edward Chaney. 

Edwards completed his great novel shortly before his death and it was published posthumously. 

The Washington Post had this to say about it:

"Imagine a weekend spent in deep conversation with a superb old man, a crusty, intelligent, passionate and individualistic character at the peak of his powers as a raconteur, and you will have a very good ideas of the impact of The Book of Ebenezer Le Page...It amuses, it entertains, it moves us...” 

THE LODGER   

He could be short-tempered and cold.

He’d say, too dear at seven quid,

and other times she would be told,

I’m leaving. But he never did.

At times he seemed to rule the house.

Lodger from Hell, she’d tell her spouse.

An old man, elderly, she’d say

a writer, something of that sort, 

with scribbled pages all in disarray.

My bloody masterpiece! He’d snort.

The manuscript on ruled foolscap,

some days he’d call a load of crap.

He was an inconsistent man:

one moment charmer, next a boor:

companionless, without a clan,

with old-school manners, but piss-poor.

He’d leave his light on half the night,

brew pots of tea and write and write.

He looked the educated type, 

authoritarian and stern, 

tweed jacket and a filthy pipe 

he’d empty in the potted fern. 

Perhaps he’d been a teacher once 

and saw her as the classroom dunce.

But all of that was years ago.

He’s dead and scattered with his debts.

His book is in the shops, although

it doesn’t sell well, she regrets.

A book’s no substitute for life.

He’d have been better with a wife.

OGDEN'S ADVICE

It’s Valentine’s Day and although lockdown restrictions may hinder the start of many a new romance, the time will come when social-distancing is a thing of the past and frustrated romantics can begin to make up for lost time. When that happens, remember to bear in mind the wise words of the great American poet, Ogden Nash. 

BRRRR.....

Winter scenes across Britain serve to reinforce my belief that relocating to Guernsey was a wise choice: the benefits become more and more apparent as I grow older. 

Statistically, January and February carry off more elderly people than any other month of the year so I’m fortunate to be able to enjoy the sanctuary of my little island as the temperatures continue to drop.

WINTER

Water stumbles: 

it freezes in blackened pools.

Birds die on wires turned lethal by the cold.

Temperature tumbles, icy-wind 

scours us. Winter’s cruel:

it wounds us, decimates the old.

SPRINGING THE LOCK

With lockdown in place almost everywhere including our own little island, here’s a short poem I wrote last spring when we experienced our first lockdown in Guernsey.

 

SPARROW

Back and forth she flies to the nesting-box, carrying straw and feather.

Can’t wait to get in.

We watch her from the window, quarantined.

Can’t wait to get out.

DEAR DIARY

Throughout our lives we inhabit various different personae: the child, the teenager, followed by a series of adult selves, as we ascend to our prime then begin the inevitable decline. Shakespeare's seven ages of man seems almost too limiting when I think of the many different 'incarnations' we experience in a lifetime. Perhaps it's a failure of imagination on my part but I cannot conceive of myself as I was as a child. I remember many of the events that happened at the time and am able to picture numerous people from that period but, myself, no. There I draw a complete blank.   

A DIARY DISCOVERED

It seems my sister found it

in a box of bits and pieces. My diary

from pre-pubescent days,

an artefact 

from former life,

a flint utensil, arrowhead, a carved stone.

Curious, I flick through pages,

crack the adolescent code with ease

and am seized

by long-forgotten scents of childhood:

liquorice, sherbet, bubblegum,

damp football boots and Dubbin.

I browse the pages,

marvel at the writer’s unformed hand,

his daily life’s banality.

I read his youthful secrets, 

of friends and dens and settled scores

but though I search in vain 

within myself 

for some frail thread

connecting then with now, 

I feel no kinship or affinity 

with that strange child, that mystery.